


we're falling skyward

by brownheadedstranger



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brownheadedstranger/pseuds/brownheadedstranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Louis fires people for a living and meets up with Harry in big cities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're falling skyward

**Author's Note:**

> um this is loosely based on Up in the Air. 
> 
> big thanks to Dom and Kat, who kept me sane during this.

It’s nearly ten when Louis gets to his hotel from the airport. Eight hours, two delays, and one stopover later. And he has to wake up and leave _before_ the continental breakfast tomorrow. Fantastic. 

Louis heads straight to the fourth floor from the check-in desk, carry-on and welcome booklet in hand. Normally, he’d stop by the bar for a drink, maybe even try chatting someone up if this were someplace like Miami or Austin. But this being Milwaukee, a night spent in his room is a night best spent. 

The floor is empty when he gets off the elevator, save for one person fumbling through his pockets at the very end of the hall. Louis rolls his eyes. 

“Lost your key card?” he asks once he’s within reasonable distance. 

The guy looks up from where he’s digging around in his satchel. Pushing his hair back, he straightens out slowly and smiles winningly. “Maybe,” he admits, sheepish. “I’m all over the place today.” 

“Harry, Harry, _Harry_.” Louis makes a big show of it, folding his arms and shaking his head disapprovingly. “That’s, ah. A shit situation.” 

That doesn’t faze Harry, who’s perhaps more smirking than smiling now. “You’re telling me. Now I’d have to go all the way downstairs and get a replacement.” His eyes drop to the welcome booklet in Louis’ hand. “What should I do?” 

Louis hums, pushing away the curl of excitement building in the pit of his stomach. “Probably get yourself a new room key.” 

“Where’s your room?” 

“That one over there.” He points at the room three doors down from Harry’s. 

“Nice,” Harry says. His hands are in his pockets now, expectant. 

Louis tells himself not to roll his eyes again. “So…” 

“So.” 

“ _So_ ,” Louis says, already walking away. “I’m sure I could offer you refuge if you don’t want to go _all the way_ downstairs.” 

“Oh, hey,” Harry says, all feigned surprise. “That’d be great. Thanks, mister.” He winks and follows close behind Louis, who makes a retching sound because _mister_. 

It doesn’t take more than several seconds after Louis unlocks the door for Harry to pin him to the nearest wall and laugh, exhilarated, right into his mouth. 

\--- 

“Lou. Lou, Lou, _Lou_.” 

Louis blinks awake. Huh. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. And now Harry is looming over him, eyes bright and amused, with one of his bony knees digging into Louis’ side. Fucking oaf. 

“What,” he croaks. 

Harry drops a kiss to his bare shoulder. “Your phone. I think it’s Aiden.” 

“Oh.” He doesn’t move. 

“Come on.” Harry swats lazily at his arm. “I hate your ringtone. Pick it _up_.”            

Louis groans and stretches, back cracking and limbs star-fishing with it. “Are you going to be here when I wake up?” 

“I have no key card,” Harry says flatly. But Louis knows they’ve never woken up alone, not since this thing started. 

“Right. Then we’ll go down together in the morning so you can get your shit.” 

Harry kisses him once, twice on the corner of the mouth. “Excellent. Now answer the fucking phone.” 

He does as he’s told, rolling out from under the sheets and sinking his toes into the plush carpeting. It’s hot in here, not just because of the post-sex haze, and Louis makes a mental note to turn on the air before heading back to bed. Harry always runs warm, and it doesn’t help that he likes to splay himself on top of Louis while they sleep. A touch of cold air should do the trick. 

Louis takes a deep breath before picking up the phone from where he’d left it on the dresser earlier. 

“Hey, babe. Hi, yeah, I’m here.” 

\--- 

They met in Sacramento. 

Louis is surprised it didn’t happen sooner—not Harry, necessarily, but someone like him, what with traveling weeks at a time to sack employees for bosses who don’t have the balls to do it themselves. It’s a rough line of work, often heavy and long-winded and not entirely healthy for long nights alone. So the need for release was always there. But it might not have ever happened until Harry. 

He had only been back on the road for a few months, still fresh from the personal time he’d taken off to reconnect with Aiden and make things work. He was in town for a workshop; Harry was there for some weekend company conference. It wasn’t until they’d run into each other four times in the same convention center that they decided to meet up for a drink. 

And that had been the accidental start to it all. 

Sometimes he’ll think it started before that, back when he’d caught Aiden in bed with the neighbor from across the hall. Though that had been a shock of cold water to Louis’ idea that he could, just maybe, disappear for months at a time and come back to his life exactly where he’d left it, it wasn’t entirely unexpected. He thought back to when he was first hired, to the older associates who had said, _nothing lasts on the road, not even what you leave behind_. And maybe he was young or maybe too hopeful at the time, but he thought, _be the exception, not the rule_. 

Nothing plays out that way, of course, and so they worked on it. Louis came back; _they_ came back. And in spite of it all, he never sought to settle the score. 

Even with Harry, it was never about that.  

Louis knew, not even all that deep down, the extent to which the distance and the constant punch of _I’ll be back home soon_ had taken their toll. He knew to expect it when he first took the job; he knew to expect it even when he found Aiden in someone else’s bed three years after the fact. 

And Harry is like a saving wind. Because he knows and understands what it means to live the lifestyle they’ve chosen—the lifestyle of mini bars, flyer miles, and empty hotel rooms. With Harry, it isn’t about hurting Aiden. With Harry, it’s about finding sympathy in a life spent adrift. 

Now barely a year has passed since it first started, and Louis feels it again. The dread. The same kind when he felt, somehow, that Aiden was about to snap. Harry is neat and easy and doesn’t ask questions. Maybe that’s what makes him so unique; maybe that’s why they’ve managed to last as long as they have. But he probably doesn’t think about their situation the way Louis does. He probably doesn’t feel the tension in the same way, mounting and mounting until it has no choice but to give. 

_Nothing lasts on the road_. 

It feels a lot like a time bomb. 

\--- 

“Where are you on the 16th and 17th?” 

“Fort Lauderdale.” 

“Fuck. I’m southwest, completely opposite end. Arizona and New Mexico.” 

“What about later that week? I’ll be in Seattle on the 21st.” 

“Tacoma. That’s, what, 40 minutes? That’s nothing.” 

Louis and Harry input the dates into their calendars from where they’re sitting on the bed cross-legged, shoulders bumping. After several more minutes of answering emails and fiddling around on the complimentary Wi-Fi, they set their laptops aside, turn off the lights, and slide back under the sheets. 

“I can’t believe I lost my key,” Harry yawns, shuffling around into a more comfortable position. “I won’t even get to wake up in my own room.” 

Louis adjusts to let Harry settle on his shoulder. He slots their legs together. “That would have been the respectable thing to do.” 

“Oh well.” Harry shrugs and flings an arm around Louis’ middle. “I think we passed _respectable_ so long ago that I can’t even see it in the distance. What did Aiden want?” 

“What? Oh. Um, nothing really. Just wanted to make sure I found my way all right.” 

“Find your way?” Harry scoffs, though it’s not unkind. “Are you really so inept that people have to check up on you? I thought you were good at your job, Louis Tomlinson.” 

“Excuse me.” Louis nudges Harry away, but he clings on even tighter. “But I am fucking amazing at my jobs. Plural. I don’t see you straddling two jobs at the same time, Styles.” One being part-time, depending mostly on convenience, but still. 

“Ha, straddle.” Harry chuckles into the darkness. “Maybe we’ll have time for some of that tomorrow morning.” 

“I’m sorry, but I plan on sleeping in for as long as I possibly can,” Louis says. “And you’ve already drastically reduced the quality of my beauty sleep.”

“You’ll get over it.”

Louis shakes his head, smiles a bit. “Whatever. Goodnight, H.” 

Harry whispers into the soft skin behind his ear. “Night, Lou.” 

\--- 

By the end of his stay, Louis is exhausted. He arrives at the airport early enough on Thursday morning that he can get a breakfast sandwich and a strong coffee, at least by airport standards, from the bagel place next to his gate. There’s still about half an hour until boarding time when he sits down, so he calls Harry. 

“ _Yee haw_ ,” Harry answers by way of greeting. 

Louis snorts. “How’s Dallas?” 

“Hot as all fuck. I’m thinking of jumping in the pool before heading down to one of my _meetings_.” He says it with an air of inconvenience, and Harry might be one of the weirdest businessmen Louis has never met. It might have something to do with the fact that he’s never met a businessman under 30. Maybe. 

“That’s business savvy,” Louis says, deadpan. 

“Yeah, well. Hey, where are you, at the airport now?” 

“Aren’t I always?” 

“Ha, _ha_. How’d everything go?” 

Louis groans and pulls a sip from his coffee instead of answering immediately. The truth is, it went the way it always did, which was to say, he did his job. He’s one of the best career transition specialists around, especially at his age, and everything went smoothly at each of the three firms he visited. No one threw a chair at him or threatened to kill his dog—none of the issues he knows his other associates face from time to time. He’s good at what he does.

Including, he often notes with pride, his side job as a motivational speaker. It's a small-time gig, usually reserved for when he has free time, and he had one such speaking engagement scheduled last night at the convention center. Normally that's fine; normally he's brilliant at inspiring people and getting them off their laurels. In fact, he's nursed a private dream in the back of his heart to speak at GoalQuest one of these days, the kind of big leagues conference that could turn him into the next Tony Robbins. But it's wishful thinking, if anything, and he sticks to the minor leagues instead.

It’s just, he rarely has speeches like last night's scheduled immediately after downsizing several businesses. His headspace gets a bit fucked that way.

When he tells Harry this much, he doesn’t get much more than a simple, “Why?” 

“I dunno, I feel two-faced sometimes,” Louis frowns, “One minute I’m giving people severance packages that’ll feed their families for several months and the next, I’m telling other people to throw their families into a backpack and light it on fire…Metaphorically, of course.” 

He doesn’t know if Harry will get that, if anyone really ever does. Sure, they’re two sides of the same coin—laying people off and telling them how to live life with minimal baggage—but one is far more destructive than the other. He’s not sure he’s the right person to break people down and build them back up again. 

Harry’s just…a hitchhiker, really, who’s found his way into Louis’ life. They’re from completely different places. He doesn’t _need_ to get what Louis does and why, sometimes, it frustrates him. That’s not necessary for them to work. 

But after a thoughtful pause, Harry says, “You’re just telling people what they need to hear. Not what you actually believe.” 

Louis wants to reply with the obvious _you don’t know what I actually believe_ , but he holds back. 

Instead, he hears Harry’s braying laughter on the other end. “Is that really what you told them? To light their families on _fire_?” 

“Not literally. It’s a _metaphor_. For not needing anyone or anything else in life other than yourself.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not in the business of homicides, Harold.” 

“No, just the one of ditching your friends and family.” 

Louis shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Like you said, I’m just telling people what they need to hear.” 

“Oh, Louis.” And there might be an undertone of sadness or _pity_ in Harry’s voice that he has to swallow around. “I’ll prove you wrong one day.” 

“Right. Well. How much longer are you in Dallas for?” 

“One more night,” Harry answers, going along with the subject change. “Then back home for a few. Feed the cat and the like. What about you?”

“Yeah, home for a few, too.” 

He registers Harry’s vague hum on the other end, and knows that they’re probably both thinking along the same lines. 

The moment Louis hangs up and gets on his flight, that’s it. While Harry’s in Los Angeles and he’s back in Omaha at the office and with _Aiden_ , it’s radio silence. That’s the only way they can sustain this. He can’t pollute that part of his life with the parts of this one, and Harry so very distinctly belongs in _this_ one. Much in the same way that he has to leave behind the sad and resigned faces of the people he’ll fire and never see again, he has to leave Harry behind, too. 

Especially now, now that he can practically hear the ticking in the back of his mind. 

“Look,” Harry says, jolting him from his thoughts, “I should probably hop in the shower. The first of many today, I’m sure.” 

Louis laughs softly. “Fuck humidity, man.” 

“Fuck humidity,” Harry laughs right back. 

They say their goodbyes and Louis drums his fingers on his thigh, at a loss for anything to do while waiting to board the plane. Briefly, he wonders what hotel Harry might be staying at, and whether or not he’s ever stayed there himself. Maybe there’s a good restaurant in the area that he’s forgotten to recommend, though that’s highly unlikely, because Harry’s been around just as much as he has. He’ll know where to look. 

When it’s time to get on the plane, Louis shuts his phone off and stuffs it into his pocket. 

Radio silence it is. 

\--- 

Louis has two weeks off—his longest break in at least six months—to supposedly putter around at home and keep his mind off anything work-related. And yet the first place he goes after his plane lands is the office. Or, rather, the _Starbucks_ next door to the office. He’s gone nearly four hours without caffeine, and his cab driver isn’t as keen on running red lights as Louis would like him to be. 

When he walks in, luggage and all, Zayn is already waiting at a table in the corner with an impatient eye roll and two caramel macchiatos. Louis is really only happy to see the latter. 

“You’re late,” Zayn says before he’s sat down.

“No shit,” Louis says fondly, sliding into his chair. “My trip was great, by the way. Thanks for asking.” 

“My lunch break is almost over now.” Zayn raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Because you were _late_.” 

“Shut it, Malik,” Louis replies. “You know as well as I do that cab drivers bend for no man. We’re but pawns in their master plan to destroy corporate America with tardiness.” 

Zayn makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like choked-off laughter as he nudges Louis’ drink across the table. “Do you ever _not_ have a smart-ass response?” 

“If that were the case, then I wouldn’t be doing what I do.” He runs his finger along the rim of his mug. “And then you might actually aspire to something more than just _second_ best at work.” 

There’s a pause, a flicker of amusement across Zayn’s face, and then a swift kick to Louis’ shin that has him yelping and drawing attention to their corner of the shop. 

“Fucker,” he hisses. 

“I like being second best, for your information,” Zayn says with a smirk. “It keeps me humble. It keeps me grounded.” 

“Humble. _Grounded_.” Louis makes a face. 

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.” 

“That’s because it is. It’s precisely what I’m afraid of.” 

Zayn doesn’t say anything immediately to that, and Louis smiles into his cup in smug satisfaction. They were the same once, before Zayn ever met Perrie, back when he spent more nights in Homestead Suites than his own apartment. So he rarely ever pushes at Louis the same way his mother does, or basically anyone else who asks him just _how_ he could spend that much time away from home. And though he can still empathize in a way that no one else can, Louis can’t help but feel like those days are numbered. 

“I don’t get you,” Zayn finally says, for about the millionth time in their friendship. 

This time, Louis rolls his eyes. “Meaning?” 

“You say these things, right, in all of your speeches. Like, fuck your family and fuck your friends—” 

“—So crudely put—” 

“—And fuck basically every person you’ve ever met and every person you’ll ever meet—” 

“—Not in _those_ words, exactly—” 

“—And yet you put up with some of them.” Zayn levels him with a look. “Why?” 

He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. I like some people.” 

“Like who?” 

“I wasn’t aware I was walking into a fucking inquisition.” Louis puffs out his lips and crosses his eyes, for levity, but Zayn remains stone-faced. “Fine. I like my sisters. And you. And Aiden, obviously.” 

“Aiden,” Zayn repeats, tone unreadable. 

Louis narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Zayn looks like he might say something, but he just sighs. “Nothing. Did you see Harry?” 

“Zayn.” 

“Did you?” 

“ _Zayn_.” 

“Lou _is_.” 

He huffs a sigh. “What do you want me to say?” 

“Lou, I don’t care. You know that.” As if to punctuate his point, Zayn reaches out and lightly rests his hand on Louis’ forearm. “But I’m just like…” When he trails off, Louis frowns. 

“You’re just like what?” 

“ _Like_.” Zayn looks like he’s fighting with himself. “What are you going to do? When this is all said and done with, I mean.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Everything. All of this, all of what we do. _Work_. When it’s all done, what happens?” 

“Okay,” Louis says slowly, “first of all, that sounds depressing as fuck, let me tell you. And second of all, people are always going to be fired. As long as that’s true, you and I will have a job. We’re not _dying_ or anything.” 

“Yeah, but.” Zayn shrugs. “Is that it? Is that it for you, then?” 

All Louis wanted was some coffee before heading into the office and now, he really just wants this conversation to end. He’s sure that Zayn’s questions are coming from a real place of concern, and Louis loves him all the more for it. But…he’s young, he’s successful, and he plans on staying that way for a while. Now is the time to be selfish, while he still has the rest of his life ahead of him. There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing. 

“For now, yeah,” he says, aiming for definitive but maybe falling just short of the mark. 

“Okay, so then what? When are you going to start getting serious about other things?” 

“Other things?” Louis looks out the window, watches the pedestrians out in the sun. “What, just because you get engaged, suddenly I have to follow suit? It’s not enough to be good at my job right now?”

“No. No, that’s not…” Zayn laughs dryly. “That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“Then where is this coming from?” 

Zayn leans back in his chair, pulling his hand off Louis and looking at him with serious consideration. It makes him nervous. 

“Let’s finish up here and head back to the office,” he says instead, leaving something else unspoken on the table. 

Louis just nods, dread settling in his stomach. 

\--- 

Liam drops by Louis’ office an hour before he normally leaves to go home. It’s a slow day, so he hasn’t actually done much after coffee with Zayn other than catch up on a few emails and coordinate everything from his laptop calendar to the one on his phone. He’s found that working from headquarters is rather pointless, anyway. All the real work that needs to be done is out there, and not at a desk. 

“How was Milwaukee?” Liam asks, settling into the seat across from Louis. 

“It was Milwaukee,” Louis replies wryly, hoping that's enough to get the point across. “Anyway. Lay it on me.” 

“What?” 

“Zayn was being all shifty earlier, and you only ever come into my office when there’s bad news.” 

Liam frowns. “That’s not true.” 

Except for the fact that it is. The last time Liam came into Louis’ office with a steep line between his eyebrows, he came bearing the news of office layoffs. Which, that’s irony or something, and Louis can appreciate it only now that he’s obviously kept his job. But still. He’s not interested in repeating the experience. 

So he just stares at Liam, determined and unyielding, until he breaks. 

“Okay, fine. But it’s not…bad, necessarily.”

“Reassuring.” 

Liam sighs. “You know that we’ve been moving things around, looking for ways to cut costs while maintaining efficiency.” He waits for Louis to nod. “It’s expensive, what we do.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“Anyway,” Liam continues, fingers coming up to play with his watch, “we’ve had some new blood come in recently, over the last couple months or so, to come up with some new ideas.” 

“And?” He hates pushing, but sometimes, when it comes to Liam, it’s necessary. 

“And there’s one in particular that, I think, they’re going to implement soon.” He looks up at Louis then. “Videoconferencing.” 

“Videoconferencing. Like Skype?” Louis stares. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“They’re calling it _glocal_ ,” Liam explains. “I think it stands for global becoming local or—anyway, it’s fairly straightforward. The kinks are still being worked out, but the entire company would be taken off the road and slowly eased into…” 

Whatever else Liam might have to say, Louis doesn’t hear it. Instead, his head rings with that last bit at the end. _Taken off the road. Taken off the road._ However else he tries to spin it, dissect it, or break it down syllable-by-syllable, nothing about it sounds right. It simply doesn’t _belong_ here in Louis’ office. He turns his attention back to Liam, who hasn’t stopped talking and has somehow transitioned into using hand motions for further explanation. 

“I’m sorry,” he cuts in, “but what?” 

Liam blinks. “I, um. I _said_ , it’s not a new thing. You’d do what you’d normally do, except over a computer. Some companies have been doing it for years already, and—” 

“No, Liam, not that. I meant that part you said about taking people off the road. _Which_ people, exactly?” 

“Oh.” Liam blanches. “Right. That’s, uh. Everyone, I believe. The whole company.” 

“Everyone,” Louis repeats. “You’re not fucking serious. And it’s done?” 

“I think so. I mean, not for a few months, obviously, but yeah. It’s done.” 

Louis sags in his chair, too thrown to say anything else to Liam. This is…it’s big, there’s no doubt about that, and no wonder Zayn started spouting off with all the questions over coffee. It’s not the usual kind of office news, the kind of thing that only affects a certain branch of the company. Zayn _knew_ , the fucker, and rather than telling Louis outright, he decided to ask him about Harry and _the future_. 

But no matter what else Zayn might have meant earlier, this news clearly means one thing. 

Louis is grounded. 

\--- 

The next two weeks seem to drag on forever. Liam’s news follows Louis everywhere he goes, sitting like a weight on his chest and shackles on his limbs. Time on the ground is usually bearable, sometimes even relaxing after a particularly stressful trip out. But now, even the most inane activities at home—sleeping in until eleven or watching movies all afternoon—carry with them the threat of permanency. And the thought of spending every day with a _routine_ starts to claw at his patience. 

Which, Louis realizes maybe a bit too late, might be slightly problematic for his relationship with Aiden. 

Aiden has always been patient with Louis. The time he waited three months for Louis to stop being an idiot before they finally kissed in their freshman year dorm. The several weeks of indecision he endured as Louis sorted through multiple job offers after graduation. That night he convinced Louis that moving to New York wouldn’t be a mistake. And that day, after spending almost an entire year in Manhattan, when Louis came home with a phone call and asked, _but what if we moved to Omaha instead?_  

But seeing Louis mope around the apartment is, apparently, more than Aiden is willing to deal with. 

“Babe.” Aiden steps in front of Louis, blocking his view of _Dancing with the Stars_ from the couch. “Lou, this is getting pathetic.”

“What?” 

“It’s been more than a week.” Aiden levels him with a look. “You’re acting like someone died. You’re _mourning_.” 

“It’s an appropriate reaction.” Louis sighs when Aiden doesn’t budge and turns off the television. “We’re talking about my career, Aiden. It’s practically dead and buried.” 

“That’s just a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?” Aiden drops next to him on the couch. He smells like the restaurant he works at, like garlic breadsticks. “D’you want a hug? A blowjob, maybe?” 

Louis grumbles but doesn’t immediately reject the offer, either. “I’m grounded, Aid. _Grounded_. What the hell am I supposed to do now?” 

“You act like this is the worst thing to happen to you,” Aiden frowns. 

“Isn’t it?” 

“Well, shit. Thanks.” 

Louis turns to look at him properly. “What do you mean?” 

“Is the idea of spending more time with your boyfriend really that horrible?” 

“You know that’s not the issue,” Louis groans, covering his face with his hands. “I’m—” 

“—If you say you’re like a bird that can’t be caged _one more time_ —” 

“—I’m not _good_ at anything else, Aiden.” 

“Hey.” Aiden grabs Louis’ hands, pulling gently until they fall to his sides. “That’s not true. And even so, it’s not like you’ve actually lost your job. Your workspace has gotten a little bit smaller, that’s all.” 

“I’m not meant for a normal 9 to 5 job. You said so yourself when we first moved here.” 

Aiden’s eyes sparkle as he remembers. “Yeah, well.” He pats Louis’ wrist fondly. “Maybe it’s time for Louis Tomlinson to settle for some normalcy.” 

“Normalcy,” Louis says flatly, “that sounds boring.” 

“We can paint one of the rooms,” Aiden suggests, “to fill the time. Or we can look into a bigger apartment, if you really want to change things up. And,” he says, dropping his voice lower and leaning into Louis’ ear, “we can go out on more date nights. Plenty of opportunity to get me drunk and take advantage.” 

Louis chuckles, lacing his fingers through Aiden’s. “That sounds…yeah, that sounds doable.” 

“Convincing,” Aiden laughs, smacking a quick kiss on Louis’ lips. “You’d be a great actor, you know. In case you ever need a fallback career.” 

And just like that, it’s back to normal and Aiden can laugh about it like he always does whenever he tries pulling Louis out of his own head. But this time is different. This isn’t a college crush or some job in a big city he can just fix. Aiden doesn’t _get_ it, and Louis doesn’t expect that from him this time around. 

“Trust me, it’ll be good,” Aiden assures him. “It’ll be a chance for us to refocus and sort things out. Go back to the way things used to be before all of this.” A beat, and then, “I love you, you know?” 

And yeah, of course he knows. But he doesn’t know what the rest of it means, what _before_ entails. Louis can’t imagine what his life had been like before he started this job. Aiden was there, has always been there, but other than that, there’s nothing else to latch onto. He vaguely recalls the doubt, the confusion, and the anxiety of always worrying whether or not he was good enough. 

But this—this job and this lifestyle. He’s good at it, no question. And that’s something he knows, too. Something he’s not ready to give up just yet.

Aiden squeezes his hand, testing, after a few too many seconds of silence. Louis shakes himself out of it, looking over and smiling close-mouthed. He squeezes back. 

“Yeah. Love you, too.” 

\--- 

As much as Aiden’s reassurances had done enough to placate Louis for the remainder of his time at home, getting out and going back to his job feels like freedom. Louis can _breathe_ again once he’s caught in the motions of priority check-in, artificial lighting, cheap terminal sushi, and in-flight turbulence. It’s these kinds of rituals—not the ones spent on a couch back home—that help keep his world in orbit. 

And now that everything doesn’t feel so absolute, he can appreciate it that much more. 

He works his way across the northwest over the course of three days. It’s a stressful whirlwind, especially after two weeks off commission. But the end goal is Seattle, where he knows Harry is waiting for him in a hotel room somewhere. They’ve been texting on and off since Louis left home, which shouldn’t feel like as much of an anchor these days as it does, but he very pointedly doesn’t think about it. 

Just because his time on the road is limited doesn’t mean their circumstances have to change. Which is why Louis heads into Harry’s hotel room with no intention of addressing the subject. Louis has always done an excellent job of keeping the two spheres of his life separate, and this is no exception. 

“You look different,” are the first words out of Harry’s mouth, hands already finding purchase on Louis’ waist.

Louis stalls. “Does that mean you don’t want into my pants?” 

Harry laughs uninhibited. “I _always_ want into your pants.” 

“Well, hurry up then and get started.” 

Once they’re sprawled across the mattress, spent and riding out the last of their high, Louis mumbles into Harry’s neck that he’d quite like a cigarette. Harry just snorts, reminds him that he doesn’t actually smoke and that they’d probably get kicked out if he started right this moment. They settle for some room service instead, even though Louis is at a point in his life where picking up a new habit seems like a reasonable choice. 

“What did you mean earlier,” Louis asks once their burgers arrive, “when you said that I looked different?” 

Harry uncovers the pot of ketchup, dipping several fries in at once. “Oh, it’s nothing.” 

“No, really. What did you mean?” 

“Nothing,” Harry insists. “Just…you look a bit tired. Worn out, maybe.” 

“Great. You’re telling me I look like shit.” 

“No, no, no, that’s not what I said.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Did you not get a lot of rest when you were at home?”

Louis shifts around where he’s sitting, not really meeting Harry’s eyes. “No, I did. I just had a busy couple of days this week, that’s all. It’s fine.”

Harry hums, seemingly satisfied, and takes a giant bite out of his burger. That’s good. Louis can always count on Harry’s restraint. He’s obviously more observant than he lets on, but at least he knows where to draw the line. 

“How was it for you, being at home?” Louis asks instead. He knows it’s not something they normally bring up, but Harry started it, so he figures it’s allowed this time. 

Harry makes an ambiguous hand motion. “It was okay. Got the mail, did some laundry, changed the oil in my car. Oh, I came home to several rat carcasses scattered throughout the apartment, courtesy of my cat. That was nice.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“Not really. They’re gifts, I think.”

“No, I think your cat is trying to send you a message.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Harry says, offering an easy smile. “I’m a cat whisperer. All the cats love me.”

“Somehow, I don’t doubt that,” Louis says.

“ _Hey_.” Harry pokes him in the side. “Is that supposed to be a dig at my bachelorhood?”

Louis bites down on his smile. “I didn’t say anything. You’re the one who’s assuming things.”

“I don’t think so.” He reaches over and before Louis knows what’s happening, Harry is wiping away at something on his chin. “Ketchup,” he explains, licking it off his thumb without another explanation.

It happens so quickly that Louis could almost pretend he’d imagined the whole thing. But it had felt so…normal between them, like it was something that they just _did_ all the time. Harry, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to think twice about it, having moved on entirely by swiping the last of Louis’ fries and tossing them in his mouth.

Louis blinks out of it, something like disappointment in himself settling under his skin.

“Shit.” Harry glances at their empty spread. “I’m full.”

“Now wait a minute,” Louis says, grabbing the room service menu from the nightstand. “I want dessert.”

Harry falls on his back and groans, though it doesn’t sound entirely put out. “Seriously? Even though your stomach is _bursting_?”

“Speak for yourself.” Louis throws him a quick glare. “It’s not like I’m the one who ate all our fries.”

“Touché,” Harry laughs. He gets up and knee-walks across the bed, hooking his chin over Louis’ shoulder and lining them up, front to back. “I don’t think I could eat another bite, though. Can’t _I_ just be your dessert instead?”

Louis grins at the proposition. “Maybe later. But right now, my business expense allots forty dollars for dinner and I plan on grabbing as many miles as I can, thank you very much.”

Harry falls quiet for a moment, letting Louis rifle through the menu’s pages a little while longer. But in between trying to decide between the chocolate-raspberry cake and the strawberry-rhubarb tart, he turns a little so that his nose brushes the side of Harry’s face. He moves forward a little, nudging him gently.

“What is it?”

Harry blinks, eyes stunningly green this close. He smiles at Louis softly. “Thinking about the whole airline miles thing.”

Louis snorts and can’t resist kissing Harry on his cheek, right where his dimple would be. He can’t even believe he’s known Harry long enough to have even memorized something as seemingly insignificant as that. Then again, things with Harry never really seem insignificant.

But that’s not an appropriate line of thought right now. Or ever, really.

“What about them?”

“Just…” Harry shifts, digging in a little more into Louis’ shoulder. “They seem pretty important to you.”

“Well, yeah.” He frowns slightly. “Aren’t they important to you, too?”

Harry unhooks himself from Louis, falling back onto his rear. Louis spins around so that they’re facing each other and sitting cross-legged with their knees bumping. At least there’s space on the bed; otherwise they’d have fallen off by now.

“Yeah,” Harry says eventually, though Louis doesn’t miss how it sounds a little resigned. “I just wish they weren’t, though.”

“What do you mean? Aren’t they the whole point to what you do? Like, flying from city to city and shit?”

“Not really.” Harry tugs at his fingers, looking like a child in the middle of a big bed. “To an extent, yeah, maybe. But I see them more as a means to an end.”

Louis raises a brow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning…insurance for the future. I’m not going to live off them forever. I’m not going to keep doing _this_ forever.” He looks up at Louis and smiles a bit, like he’s given this serious thought. “The miles aren’t the goal. They’re going to help me start my life.”

“Oh.” Louis has heard this before. Usually, he’d find it too idealistic. But coming from Harry, it doesn’t sound completely ridiculous.

“I love traveling, don’t get me wrong,” Harry adds, drumming his fingers thoughtfully. “It’s given me plenty of opportunities for sure. But like, I’m not going to get _married_ to my job, you know? I really enjoy what I do and I’ll keep doing it, obviously, but I don’t want it to be the most important thing in my life, either.”

“So what _do_ you want?” Louis surprises himself by asking the question, feeling like it could tread into dangerous territory. But now that they’ve breached the topic, he can’t help himself; he wants to know. “I mean. If not this, then what?”

The air in the room sits heavily as Harry considers over a long pause, eyes wandering across the ceiling.

“I want a family,” he says finally, brows scrunched in concentration. “I think I’ve always wanted that, since I was young. I always imagined myself working by day, playing with the kids by night. I’d cook because I love being in the kitchen, and I’d host game nights that all my friends would pretend to hate but secretly love. I’d send my mom and sister on vacation all the time with the miles I’d earned. Sure, I probably wouldn’t have a job that meant flying out as much, but I’d have a backyard, a Jeep Wrangler, a golden lab to annoy the cat—the whole thing.” 

“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Louis offers, mind reeling with the influx of information. “Very traditional of you.” 

“Granted, the whole _husband_ thing was a new addition to the plan, arriving sometime in high school,” Harry continues, “but that didn’t really change anything. It was always about finding the right person to do all that with.” 

Louis swallows, throat suddenly dry. “The right person?” 

Harry looks at Louis then, his lips turned up in a warm smile. 

“Not afraid of flying, obviously. Doesn’t mind staying in and ordering pizza for dinner. Loves to eat and won’t lie if something I cook tastes like shit. Honest, I guess. Loves to read. And not just on his Kindle or iPad or whatever but actually loves to read _books_. Athletic but not _so_ much that I look stupid by comparison. Just enough to play catch or kick a ball around with the kids. Loves kids. Wants kids. Wants to have kids with me…” He trails off a bit, lost in his thoughts even with his eyes trained on Louis. “I’d be lying if I said looks didn’t matter, but they don’t matter _that_ much. A nice smile—yeah, a nice smile might do the trick.”

Louis can’t even get a word in before Harry fixes him with wide eyes and asks, “What about you?”           

“Me?” 

“Do you—I mean, is that what you have with Aiden?” 

Oh. 

There’s a rule, Louis has to remind himself. They can’t mention Aiden, not like this. Harry _must_ know that. Only when he’s calling Louis or otherwise directly involved in the situation. Otherwise, he doesn’t exist here. Just like Harry doesn’t exist anywhere else. 

“More or less,” he hears himself saying, and he hopes Harry takes the hitch in his voice as a sign to drop Aiden from the conversation. Nothing else. 

Harry seems to get it, nodding along. “And what about the miles? What do you want to do with those?”

Louis’ mind is struggling to catch up, still thrown from Harry’s earlier question. In his mind, he imagines some faceless stranger doing everything Harry had mentioned. Stealing the window seat on every flight, reading books after a long day at work, playing baseball out in the yard…He tries transposing Aiden’s face into every situation, and each time, he comes up short. 

It’s only when he feels Harry’s hand on his knee that he manages to look up, not even realizing how much he’d zoned out. 

“Lou?”

He shakes his head. “I—um.” Miles. Right. “I don’t know really. I’ve kind of just been saving them up.” 

“For what? Hawaii? France?” 

_Just to do something_ , he wants to say. _Just so I have something to show for myself_. But that’s not what comes out in the end. 

“Just to save,” he says. 

Thankfully, Harry doesn’t have an immediate response. But he does lean in to watch Louis carefully and somehow, that’s so much more to deal with. When he goes to look away, Harry squeezes his knee. 

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he says gently, like he knows it’s the encouragement Louis needs. “But…wouldn’t you want to go on a vacation or something?” 

Louis shrugs. “Don’t have the time.” 

Harry leans back but keeps his hand there. The longer it stays, the more it feels like it could burn a hole through Louis’ skin. 

“I wish I could whisk you away from work.” He says it so sincerely that it makes Louis’ chest clench. “You wouldn’t fuss or anything, even though I know how much you like to make things difficult for everyone, and I’d just have you look at the destination board. You’d choose a place and we’d just _go_.” 

It’s almost an ache to hear those words and understand just how impossible they are, and he deliberately doesn’t address the fact that Harry seems rather self-assured in just how well he thinks he knows Louis. But this isn’t the first time he’s ever considered the prospect of dropping everything and getting away for a while; Aiden stopped trying to pull him from work a long time ago. And the likelihood of it ever happening with _Harry_ …well, Louis can’t really think about that. It just wouldn’t, plain and simple. 

“That’d be nice,” he says. “Hopefully you’ll be able to do that with your, um, future whoever. The person you’re meant to be with.” 

Something unreadable flashes across Harry’s face, and though it’s gone just as quickly as it came, it’s enough to have Harry drawing his hand away from Louis’ knee and reaching over to grab the room service menu instead. It feels like more of a loss than it should. 

“Yeah. Hopefully,” he agrees, not really looking at Louis when he says it. “In the meantime, I seem to remember you mentioning something about dessert? I’m partial to ice cream, I think.” 

Louis’ not really that hungry anymore, but he sidles up next to Harry anyway and drops a quick kiss to his shoulder. It feels like giving reassurance, but he’s not sure what for. “Ice cream sounds good.” 

Later, once they’ve finished up with everything and cleared the bed so that it’s fit to sleep in, Louis grabs his phone to bring with him to the bathroom. _Have to call and say goodnight_ , he tells Harry, hoping he understands. He does this every night he’s away; tonight is no different. 

When he gets out, the lights are off and Harry is already sleeping, his breathing deep and even in the darkness. 

\--- 

Going home after Seattle means making peace with more time on the ground. Three weeks this time, which, okay, fine, whatever. Louis figures that this is a pattern he’ll have to get used to sooner or later, and that there’s no point in kicking and fighting on the long, slow drag toward the inevitable. He has a pretty busy schedule at the end of this break, shuttling between a bunch of firms across the south, and then Zayn’s bachelor weekend coming in soon after that.

So, overall, he’s not without things to look forward to. 

There’s just less to distract him once he’s at home. Working at the office is boring, which Louis remains firmly adamant about, no matter how much Zayn tries to convince him otherwise by pointing out the merits in videoconferencing software or taking him to new lunch spots that they haven’t been to before. It’s like a cheap way of trying to speed up Louis’ recovery in his hour of mourning. It takes _time_. 

Just like it takes time to grow accustomed to morning rush hour traffic, the long lines at Dunkin on the way to the office, the emptiness of the apartment when he gets home in the evenings. Normally, Aiden would be there to welcome him home. Instead, he’s still out at work, having accepted a position at a new restaurant that has him working later hours than he used to. It’s a bigger job with decidedly more glamour to the title, and so as a boyfriend, Louis is thrilled for him. Of course he is. But… 

They just don’t see much of each other for those first two weeks. Things go on much of the same way for Louis: wake up, go to work, eat lunch with Zayn, come home, order dinner, go to bed alone, repeat. Even Sundays, when Aiden has the day off, are spent mostly napping around and conserving energy for the week ahead. It’s like college all over again, living with someone but not actually _living_ with them. Having a roommate but never really seeing them. 

And that’s not right or fair, really, because Aiden is so much more than a roommate. Obviously. But it doesn’t feel that way right now at this transition period in his life. _Their_ lives. Christ, Louis’ mind gets all fucked when he spends this much time thinking by himself. 

Which is why, he supposes, he can’t exactly be faulted for thinking about Harry every now and then. Louis is already fairly scatterbrained at the best of times, and so it must be a natural thing to have his mind wander off occasionally. Harry occupies a decent amount of space in his life, he’s not stupid enough to deny that. So it’s okay to think about him, much like he’d think about his cousins and his high school English teacher if he let his mind trail off that far. 

But when he thinks about Harry, it’s all in a professional context. What his job is like, how many miles he’s earned, where he’s flown to this week, if he’s meeting up with someone there, too. 

Perhaps not that last part. No, definitely not that last part. But it might just be the cabin fever from being trapped by four walls at any given point in the day. Otherwise, he _knows_ it’s professional. Detached. 

It’s nothing to dwell on. 

\--- 

“This bagna càuda is too oily.” 

Louis looks up from where he’s smearing garlic on his bread. “What? Did you say magna carta?” 

Aiden snorts. “No. _Bagna càuda_. The dip.” 

“Oh.” Louis studies the small terra cotta pot. “I like it. It tastes special.”

“Only you would say that.” 

“Well, good thing I’m the one who said it, then.” 

They’re out to dinner for the first time in what must be months. It’s one part a celebration of Aiden’s new job and another part a somber sort-of acknowledgment of the upcoming changes in Louis’. Though, Louis suspects, the whole thing is one celebration from Aiden’s perspective. As long as one of them is completely thrilled, in the end. 

The restaurant that Aiden’s chosen—of course he chose, what with being the residential chef and all—is one that’s opened up in the last year, though they never had the chance to visit. That’s mostly his fault, Louis supposes. But at least they’re here now, and it’s been a while since he’s had the opportunity to be wined and dined like someone’s _boyfriend_. It’s dim and moody and atmospheric and Louis thinks that if they have just enough wine tonight, he might be able to score some couch sex when they get home. It’ll be like the first, frenetic days when they started dating. 

“I hope the rest of the food isn’t this way,” Aiden continues, cleansing his mouth with a healthy pull from his wine glass. 

“Everyone says the food here is delicious,” Louis says, shoving the breadbasket away before he’s tempted into having another. “Stop being such a _chef_ and enjoy.” 

Aiden scrunches his nose, getting it all wrinkly the way that Louis shouldn’t but actually secretly does find cute. “I’m not being a _chef_ , whatever that means.” 

“You’re being all…critic-y.” Louis waves his hand around, hoping it’s enough of an explanation. “First, you said it’s too dark—” 

“—Candlelight isn’t the _only_ kind of lighting—” 

“—And that the rolls are too dry. And now, the magna whatever-the-fuck is too oily. Babe, just relax, let the nice people give you your food, and let me get you drunk.” And with that, he tops off Aiden’s glass with a cheeky wink. 

Aiden stares at him, shadows playing across his face from the candlelight. Louis can’t really see what he’s thinking and maybe he’s right, maybe it _is_ too dark in here. 

“I love you,” Aiden says. 

Louis bows his head, cheeks and stomach unnaturally warm. “Me too.” 

Their food comes out moments later—gnocchi for him, a porterhouse for Aiden—and there’s surprisingly little criticism on Aiden’s end. It’s actually quite nice being out together like this. Since he’d gotten home, and maybe even longer than that, it had felt like they were drifting apart. Not in any real serious way or anything. It’s probably normal for couples that have been together as long as they’ve been. Still, he won’t think about it too much, if only to save himself from the dull kind of sadness that accompanies that train of thought. When it’s like this, things are good. 

Even if it’s just for tonight, things are _nice_. 

“You’re off again soon,” Aiden says when the table’s been cleared off for dessert. 

“Not like you’ll miss me.” Louis smirks, playing with his napkin on his lap. “Since you’ll be too busy cooking better, non-oily foods for the fine people of Omaha.” 

“I’ll still miss you,” Aiden swears, a strange, sad sort of lilt to his mouth that has Louis’ heart dropping. 

“I know that,” Louis says, nudging his foot against Aiden’s under the table for…comfort, maybe. “I know. I was just kidding.” 

“Yeah.” Aiden sounds far away. “I know that, too.” 

But anything Louis might’ve said in response is interrupted by the arrival of their sticky toffee pudding. So he settles for watching Aiden cautiously, worried that maybe he’s ruined the night somehow. He certainly hopes he hasn’t. 

Louis takes a careful first bite, waiting for Aiden to do the same and assure him he hasn’t said anything wrong. He feels like it’s always this way lately, never really _knowing_ with each other. 

“Aiden—” 

“Lou, can I ask you something?” 

He blinks, startled by the sudden insistence that seems to have found its way to Aiden’s voice just now. 

“Yeah. Yeah, what is it?” 

Aiden’s eyes sweep across the table one more time as he lowers his fork to the table, almost like he’s preparing for something. It doesn’t do anything to settle the turmoil that has been bubbling up inside Louis for the last few minutes now. 

“Will you marry me?” 

Louis feels his eyes widen, which would really be quite the sight, if Aiden would just _look_ at him. “Wait. What?” 

This time, Aiden meets his eyes. “Will you marry me?” 

Time slows down just then, the rest of the restaurant and the world around Louis reduced to a hum that he can hear and feel vibrating from his ears down to his bones. The gap between them seems to stretch out even wider, and all Louis can think about right now, inexplicably, is his stupid motivational speech. 

_We weigh ourselves down until we can’t even move. And make no mistake, moving is living._

“Lou?”

_Your relationships are the heaviest components in your life. But you don’t need to carry all that weight. The slower we move, the faster we die._

“Louis.”

He snaps out of it, finding Aiden’s eyes across the table. They’re soft and worried, but also guarded with something unreadable. Louis doesn’t like it. 

“Are you serious?” 

That might not have been the best follow-up, seeing as Aiden’s face falls immediately afterward. “I—fuck, of course I’m serious. _Lou_.” 

Louis shakes his head, breathing in and out. In and out. “No, I just…I’m surprised, is all? We haven’t even gotten halfway through dessert.” 

Normally Aiden might appreciate his attempt at lightening the mood, but not now. Instead, his expression turns slightly pained. 

“I don’t, like, have a ring right now or anything but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to marry you,” Aiden tells him, voice low but fierce. “It’s just. I’ve really been thinking about it and I wanted to wait until you were grounded officially, but I _love you_ and—” 

Louis cuts him off by grabbing his hand on the tabletop, holding on like it’s the anchor they both need. He can feel Aiden’s pulse thudding helplessly. 

They’ve talked about it before, of course. Couples don’t last as long as they have without entertaining notions of the future, even in passing. In many respects, it always felt like an inevitability to Louis. But where and how that inevitability would fit in with the rest of the components in Louis’ life, like his job…he doesn’t know. Even now, when it’s staring him right in the face, he still doesn’t know. 

Then there’s the small part of him that simply doesn’t buy into it. Strictly based on principle. Because nobody like Louis ever finds success in telling people how to forsake all relationships if they didn’t at least halfway believe it. And that’s so fucked up somehow, and so entirely _unfair_ to someone like Aiden, who deserves to see all his dreams of a family and happiness come true. Aiden, who’s managed to stick around this long and still find something worthy enough in Louis to actually propose a lifelong commitment. 

When it comes down to it, that’s all Louis can think: it’s been so long for both of them, how could he possibly say anything _other_ than yes? 

He looks to his glass of water, disappointed to find it empty. Fuck. 

“Aiden,” Louis starts, fingers twitching against Aiden’s hand. He can feel himself floundering. “I…want to say yes. Really, I do. But you said yourself that you thought of waiting until I was officially grounded and…” He squeezes tight, hoping the sincerity shines through. “And I think that might be best. Everything else is so up in the air right now, and I want to give that question the full attention it deserves when everything settles.” 

Aiden inhales sharply. He doesn’t let go of Louis. 

“ _Really_ ,” he says again, borderline desperate. “Ask me again later?” 

It’s a testament to how great Aiden is—and how much Louis clearly doesn’t deserve him—that he brings their hands to his mouth to kiss Louis’ knuckles softly. Relief, sudden and undeserved, washes over Louis instantly. 

“Okay,” Aiden says. He doesn’t seem too disappointed by it, but he’s not happy either. “Later.” 

The air around them suddenly feels too tight and too fragile all at once. Aiden is the first to let go, and they finish dessert in relative silence. Louis presses on his foot again under the table, smiling tentatively when he feels the pressure in return. It doesn’t shake the feeling that he’s lost something, anyway.

There’s no couch sex that night, not that Louis had been expecting it anymore. They settle for something quick and routine in bed instead, and when Louis comes, it’s likely the worst one he’s felt in ages.

\---

In a weird, probably twisted way, Aiden’s proposal comes at a perfect time. They’re back to work the next day and back to long stretches without seeing each other. And before either of them knows it, Louis is back on the road and flying south to Charleston. 

It works out. 

The time apart is definitely needed, if only to regroup and get back into the mindset of dealing with people whose worst problem this week won’t be the fact that they were proposed to by a perfect gentleman. Three weeks is, surprisingly, enough time to jar Louis and have him fumbling through his first couple rounds. But by lunchtime at his first company, he’s good as new. 

Still, there’s a voice in the back of his head reminding him how things could be different right now. He could be _engaged_ and doing all of this. And whether or not that feels like a good thing, Louis doesn’t want to think about it. 

He has a job to do. 

\--- 

By the time he gets to Atlanta, he’s been away from home for almost a week. He and Aiden haven’t really talked, sticking mostly to an exceptional game of phone tag and only leaving voicemails during the lulls in their respective schedules. They’re busy. 

Or at least, that’s what Louis tells himself when he feels his mind threatening to pull him into thoughts that might be too real or too much to handle. 

Louis might be unraveling. 

But that’s okay, because in Atlanta, he gets to see Harry. And he’s not sure _when_ that became something to look forward to, but it is, and he’s going to take what he can get. He needs to prove to himself that he hasn’t become so far gone, so completely wrapped up in the abstractions of his work that he can’t even sustain basic human interactions with the people around him. This, he can do.

Harry’s flight comes in later that night, which has Louis puttering around the hotel room impatiently. He’s so hopped up on pent up energy and emotion that even sitting down long enough to filter through his emails has him feeling like his fingers could fall off. So he paces up and down the length of the room, restlessness only mounting when he receives Harry’s text saying he’s landed and should be over from the airport shortly.

The knock that comes an hour later has Louis running over and pulling the door open to drag Harry inside. He still has his bags, and Louis can appreciate the idea that he’s as desperate for this as he is, so much so that he couldn’t even stop by his room to drop things off. 

“Hey, Lou,” Harry says, amused as Louis throws him across the bed. “Eager?” 

Louis pounces on him and crashes their mouths together. “You have no idea,” he mumbles against Harry’s lips. 

Harry groans appreciatively at that, hands immediately finding their way to Louis’ waist and insistently kneading at the warm skin exposed there. Louis probably should have planned this out better beforehand, probably should have taken off his shirt to make things quicker and make access easier. He should have known that Harry would want this just as much— 

“Lou. Lou, Lou, Lou,” Harry gasps, pulling away. 

Louis looks down at him, vision going hazy at the edges. “What?” 

Harry’s face goes soft, a smile working its way across his mouth. “I missed you. I missed you a lot.” 

It feels like too much of an admission in this small hotel room, especially with the way that Harry says it all earnest eyes and rosy cheeks. So Louis does the only thing he’s best at when it’s the two of them, kissing Harry hard and immediately working to peel off the layers of clothing between. Harry goes with it easily, nipping at Louis’ lips like it’s a game. 

“You know,” Louis starts, sliding his mouth down to suck a mark along the side of his throat, “you could help me out with this.”

Harry laughs breathlessly, pulling away just long enough to work on loosening his tie. They kiss in between articles of clothing, lips smacking together obscenely as they fight to meet bare skin with bare skin. It takes longer than it ought to, even after months of practice, and Louis almost hates Harry for the serenity with which he seems to tackle life, so he pops open the button on Harry’s slacks for him and tugs everything down, boxers and all. 

“You’re in a bit of a rush today. D’you have somewhere you need to be?” It’s an innocent question, but Louis doesn’t miss the trace of genuine concern on Harry’s face as he asks it. And _god_ , that shouldn’t do things for Louis, but it does. 

“Not unless you want me to leave,” he replies, ducking back down to seal their lips before Harry can answer. 

Everything feels rushed in a way Louis hasn’t felt in ages. Sex with Harry, back when they first started, was always hurried. Whether it was because they were still too cautious around each other to stay around or because they felt a real sense of urgency, it always went by too quickly to fully appreciate. In fact, Louis never knew whether or not he could believe what had happened until he saw Harry again, just as real as he was the last time they’d met up. 

But it’s different now. Frantic without the time limit. Reckless without the concern for after. He knows Harry’s body impossibly well now, hands skimming down planes of tattooed skin to the sharp jut of his hipbones, fingertips playing with the sensitive spots he finds there. Louis can _lose_ himself in this and still trust in his ability to give Harry what he wants. And based on the way that he’s involuntarily keening into Louis’ mouth and bucking up, Harry wants this just as bad as Louis does. 

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” Louis hears himself saying, moving down to mouth at Harry’s collarbone and gripping tight enough to leave marks in his skin. 

Harry makes a sound at that, caught high somewhere in the back of his throat as he rolls his hips up. He’s just as hard as Louis, pressing hotly into his thigh and palming at Louis’ ass in earnest. It’s a devastating sight, the way that Louis pulls off long enough to appreciate the view of an exposed Harry Styles, head tilted back and neck littered with red spots that’ll only darken with time. They hardly ever get like this, with Louis determining the pace and Harry just taking it. But he’s here now, pliant and waiting under Louis and it’s fucking fantastic. 

Tugging on Harry’s hair with one hand and swiping his thumb across his jaw line with the other, Louis slides their lips together and grinds down hard, humming approvingly when Harry makes a particularly guttural sound. 

“Lou— _fuck_.” His kisses turn hungry, missing Louis’ lips and leaving a trail down his chin. “I’ve got—you need to…on the floor.” 

It takes a moment to piece together the meaning, and when he does, Louis pulls away reluctantly. Harry is a mess beneath him, flushed from his face to his chest and glassy-eyed as he peers up at him. He’s unnaturally beautiful like this, tempting enough that Louis considers just swallowing Harry down completely right there until he’s writhing and falling apart in his mouth. 

But then Harry’s cock gives a twitch where it’s lying flat on his belly, dark and heavy, like it knows what Louis is thinking, and he has to fling himself off the bed to rifle through Harry’s carry-on for what they need. He jumps back on the mattress, tossing the condom over by Harry’s thigh and coating his fingers until they’re dripping with lube. 

“ _C’mon_ ,” Harry gasps, spreading his legs apart and bucking his hips up in search of friction. Louis fits his lips around one of Harry’s nipples at the same time he works a finger in, earning a sharp cry of pleasure from Harry.

“Should I stop?” he asks, only half-kidding. 

“Fuck you,” Harry breathes. His eyes are screwed shut, features contorted in concentration. It’s mesmerizing. “Just…keep going. _Please_.”

Louis snorts. “Since you’re so polite.” And he licks a stripe along Harry’s cock, just for good measure. 

Fucking Harry open slowly, it doesn’t take long until Louis is sure enough to add another. He hasn’t had Harry this way in a long time, and he’s not about to take the opportunity for granted. Even as he slips a third finger in, Louis makes sure to give attention to the rest of Harry’s body, whether that means tweaking a nipple or sucking the head of his cock, just to take the edge off. Even though his own cock bobs unattended to between his legs, it’s almost enough to watch as he disassembles Harry, piece by piece. 

Like this, he can already feel the week’s earlier tension melting off of him. 

After crooking his fingers one last time, Louis pulls out to grab the condom. But before he can do that, he feels Harry’s warm palm on his wrist. 

“Kiss me,” Harry whispers, eyes glinting from the bedside lamp. And really, what else can Louis do? 

As Louis plunges his tongue gently between Harry’s lips, he carefully tears the wrapper open and discards it to the side before slowly rolling the condom on. He has Harry distracted through the whole process as he coats his length generously with lube, holding himself up with one hand practically buried in the mattress next to Harry’s shoulder. He nudges against Harry, eyes closed and not quite teasing. 

“You’re the fucking _worst_.”

Louis grins at the same time that he pushes in, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he eases down onto both forearms. Harry’s hotter and tighter than he remembered, and he has to ignore the way Harry kisses the inside of his wrist to keep from bottoming out completely. 

“Shh,” Louis says uselessly, moving slowly to fit their bodies perfectly. 

And really, it doesn’t take that much time; they’ve always slotted together much easier than they probably should have. But as soon as Louis’ in all the way, Harry spurs him into moving, ready to get going. Louis has to breathe in deeply through his nose, but he obliges by pulling out just slightly and driving back in with force. Harry’s eyes fly open like he wasn’t expecting that, and Louis can’t help the curl of pride that settles deep in his stomach. 

They settle into a faster pace, Harry winding his legs around Louis’ waist and trapping him, greedily chasing the sparks of pleasure from Louis hitting him _just_ right. Louis can’t even focus properly, opting instead to mouth pointlessly at one of Harry’s bird tattoos. It’s always such a surprise to see him so marked up, little ink symbols decorating his skin and hinting at things that Louis could only ever dream about. It’s a heavy thought, but Louis thinks he’d like to do more than dream one day. 

He feels Harry’s palms get warmer and tackier against his shoulder blades, his fingers clutching tighter to endure Louis’ faster pace. They’re both getting there; he can feel it from the way Harry clenches and unclenches around him, eager for release. He works his hand between them, fumbling until he reaches Harry’s cock. With one tug, he has Harry moaning his name. 

“Oh my god,” he whines, reaching down to cover Louis’ hand with his own. Together, they work to bring him off by the fifth stroke, and Harry can’t do much more than arch off the bed and spill over their fingers and his stomach. 

Louis can’t deal with that, doesn’t think he could ever forget the way Harry looks and _feels_ when he comes. He slams in one, two, three more times before he’s crying out and pulsing inside Harry, hips stuttering as he rides out his orgasm. There’s nothing smart that could possibly come out of his mouth right now, so he settles like dead weight on top of Harry, thankful that their size difference allows him to do this without completely crushing him. 

Harry strokes lightly up and down Louis’ back, fingertips playing with the stickiness there. Louis lets himself enjoy it, eyes still shut as his mind struggles to catch up to speed. He hears and feels Harry’s rumbling laughter deep in his chest, and he looks up to glare at him, chin positioned on top of his fists.

“What?” 

“I’m just thinking of the face you made when you manhandled me in here.” Harry manages an expression almost offensively ridiculous, not quite unlike an ape. “You were _so_ into it.” 

Louis makes to swat at him, but Harry catches him by the wrist and kisses the pad of his thumb. 

“It was hot,” he assures him. 

“Right.” Louis rolls his eyes but can’t keep the smile off his face as he pulls out, shivering slightly at the sensitivity as he tugs off and ties up the condom. He throws it over the side of the bed. “I should just leave you here. Let you clean yourself up.” 

Harry bats his eyelashes and it’s disturbingly endearing. “Wait here. I’ll do it.” 

Louis hums with gratitude, watching as Harry toddles off into the bathroom with wobbly knees. He couldn’t even get up if he tried, too boneless and disoriented from release. He curls up in the sheets, exhaustion from the last few days finally catching up with him. 

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Harry jokes when he gets back, wiping both of them down with a damp towel. “You’re taking up both sides.” 

“Like you couldn’t move me if you wanted.” 

Harry doesn’t argue with that, making a soft noise as he tosses the towel onto the floor. “Hey,” he says, poking Louis in the ribs, “you have to call Aiden.” 

His brain is clouding over and he could give the truth, which is that Aiden is likely still at work and probably wouldn’t be able to answer. Instead, he replies, “It’s fine. Sleep first. Sleep now.” 

There’s a beat where Harry doesn’t say or do anything. Louis catches him looking over with curiosity and he flips over instead, shutting his eyes to ignore the weight of his stare. Grumbling, he shifts up the mattress until Harry gets the hint and pulls the comforter over them. He hears, rather than sees, Harry flick the lights off and squirm around until they settle into something more comfortable. But even with his eyes closed, he can feel Harry watching him. 

“You’re amazing,” Harry whispers. And before Louis can reply, there’s a brush of lips against his cheek and a rustling of sheets. “Goodnight.” 

\---

Life back home should have shifted, should have tilted on its axis, but it seems remarkably unchanged even after everything that’s happened in the last month. 

Aiden insists that they’re okay and, really, Louis can’t do anything more than believe him. But that doesn’t sway his decision to give Aiden his space, which isn’t all that difficult given their work schedules. It just seems necessary for the health of their relationship to tackle their respective life changes separately; he doesn’t think it’d be fair to weigh Aiden’s success down with his own problems. Not when he’s done enough damage already. 

So Louis internalizes everything for the most part, shuttling between home and work like everything is normal and not some weird, muted kind of in-between. But Zayn catches on fairly quickly, which, you know, no surprises there. He’s always had an uncanny sense for Louis’ crises, big and small. 

“You’re, like, in a weird place right now,” Zayn muses one day over lunch. 

Louis doesn’t know how to respond when Zayn makes comments like this, seemingly apropos of nothing. Chances are, it makes sense in the context of their conversation but he’s too distracted by his black bean soup to respond accordingly. Whatever. 

“I can’t even pretend to know what you mean by that.” 

“Like a fugue state,” Zayn explains easily. 

“That’s the wrong term, I think,” Louis replies, considering it. “More like exhausted. Or sex-deprived. Either one works.” 

“Have you two talked about the…you know?” 

“You can say it, you know. The _proposal_ ,” Louis says as casually as possible. “It’s not taboo. And I don’t think either of us really wants to. He’s fine, I’m fine, _we’re_ fine.” He pauses, considering a bit of cilantro floating in his soup. “Or so he says. I’ll get back to you when I find out for sure.”

“Is it that bad?” 

Louis sighs. He’s so, so tired. Tired from thinking about his relationship. Tired from thinking about work. Tired from thinking—no, overthinking—in general. Nothing feels straightforward anymore. 

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Maybe. Probably not. I’m not engaged, but on the other hand, I still have my job, so.” 

Zayn makes a sympathetic face. “Lou—” 

“No, stop,” he interrupts, lifting a hand. “I need to stop thinking about it. I keep telling myself that everything has changed when really, no, it hasn’t. It just feels that way. If I don’t think about it, then it’ll pass eventually.” 

“What if it doesn’t?” 

And that stumps Louis for a moment, because it just _has_ to. Since he graduated college, he’s had this idea of what his life would look like, what it would _be_ based on the decisions he made regarding where he lived, what he did, and who he was with. Maybe it was too young of him, too primitive to expect only one, long-term outcome. But now he’s here, and it’s all he has. 

“Then,” he starts slowly, “I make myself get over it. What’s the alternative otherwise? Lose everything?” 

“You’re not going to lose _everything_ , Lou.” 

“I only know how to do one thing,” Louis admits quietly. “I’m only good at _one_ thing. And I’ve only been with one person. One good person. What do I do if I fuck both of those up?” 

It’s a question without an answer, if Zayn’s fumbling silence is anything to go by. And that’s fine, because how could Louis expect anyone else to solve what he hasn’t? He smiles half-heartedly, caring fuck-all about how Zayn probably sees right through it, and pushes through another lunch, another day. 

Later, when Louis gets home that evening, his phone vibrates with an unread message. Aiden’s still at work, meaning he’s left to scavenge for food on his own. The refrigerator is empty and he tries his best to keep from reading any symbolism into that, settling for toast and scrambled eggs for his dinner. 

He doesn’t remember to open the message until he’s in the bathroom, getting ready for a shower. And when he pulls it up, his heart stutters in his chest. 

It’s from Harry. 

_Hi_ , it says. 

Hi. That’s it. 

That’s all. 

The water’s running, there’s steam in the room, and Louis is standing completely naked, but Harry’s text is all he can focus on. 

They don’t—they don’t text, is the thing. They don’t make contact _at all_ , not when either one of them is on the ground. That’s how it works between them. That’s how things stay clear cut, black and white. In the midst of everything else going on in Louis’ life, those lines of distinction had been something to hold onto for some semblance of order. 

Until now. 

Louis rereads the text, waiting for… _something_. Another message, maybe, or some hidden meaning there that he won’t find unless he looks deep enough. Anything to explain why Harry, who always seemed to understand the boundaries of their relationship, would do something like this out of the blue. But the realization never comes. 

His fingers hover over the keyboard, a thousand different things to say flurrying in the forefront of his mind but freezing when he tries to get one out. No response seems appropriate enough. 

So he doesn’t give one. He takes the safer option— _the weaker option_ , he thinks—and sets the phone down. Pulls the shower curtain back and steps in, standing under the spray until his skin turns bright red with it. 

\--- 

Harry’s text is still floating somewhere in the haze of Louis’ mind by the time he flies to Los Angeles with Zayn and Liam to celebrate Zayn’s bachelor weekend. Vegas sucks, apparently, or so Zayn says; plus he’s always preferred trips to California for his holidays. At any rate, it’s an opportunity for a weekend of nonstop drunkenness and a much-needed reminder that things do, in fact, move on. And more than anything, Louis is glad for the distraction. 

They’re there from Friday night through to Sunday afternoon—one last hurrah before Zayn and Perrie’s wedding the following weekend. Aiden had kissed Louis goodbye before leaving for the airport, patting him twice on the butt and reminding him not to bring home any stray strippers. That, at least, felt like a promise he could keep, and so he left home feeling marginally better than he’d been all week. 

Friday night is a mess, from the hotel mini-bar that Zayn drains singlehandedly to the club down the street that’s too hot and too packed for Louis to enjoy himself completely. It’s been a while since he’s had a proper night out, what with most of his drinking reserved for private engagements and hotel lobbies. So he takes it upon himself to watch over Zayn and wrestle him out of any real trouble. But Liam, who isn’t much of a drinker to begin with, stays just as solid as he does, and their night winds up turning into an exercise in keeping Zayn from making a complete fool of himself. 

“I could kill him,” Liam says without any real heat on their walk back to the hotel. It’s nearly two in the morning and they’re sharing the weight of a useless Zayn propped up between them. “He’s _so_ drunk.” 

“It’s because he’s so thin,” Louis says ruefully, hoisting Zayn’s arm around his shoulders. “Fucking asshole.” 

But drunk Zayn is an appreciative Zayn, smacking wet kisses on both their cheeks when they deposit him into one of the queen-sized beds in the hotel room. Liam extends his arms and stretches, shirt riding up just a little. 

“This is why I don’t go out with you guys,” he says, back cracking. 

Louis snorts. “You act like we go out to begin with. We’re real homebodies now.” He looks down at Zayn. “Or at least he is. Soon.” 

When he looks up, Liam is watching him with a curious expression. 

“What?” Louis asks. 

Liam shakes his head. “Nothing. D’you mind if I get ready in your bathroom? All my stuff’s here anyway.” 

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Liam has a room of his own next door, ostensibly to distinguish himself as the only single one in the group and bring home any potential hook ups. But it’s not really about that at all. Another room means more miles, simple as that. 

While Liam washes up, Louis slips out of his club wear—a white scoop neck and black jeans he probably hasn’t worn since a basement party his senior year—and into something more sleep-appropriate. He reaches for his phone, which he left behind in the nightstand as a precaution. There’s nothing there from Aiden, which, that’s probably nothing to worry about since he knows Louis wouldn’t have been able to answer anyway. It makes sense. 

There is, however, a second text from Harry.

It doesn’t actually say anything, only a string of question marks that Louis would likely find entertaining in any other circumstance.

He looks back first at Zayn’s sleeping figure, then at the closed bathroom door. There’s nothing to hide, necessarily, but he feels the need to check all the same. Looking down at the screen, he sees that Harry’s message was sent only half an hour ago. That’s not…it wouldn’t be unreasonable to send a reply right now. 

Except for the fact that it would be unreasonable to send a reply at all, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s late, no one is watching him, and he remembers that Harry _lives_ in Los Angeles. 

So Louis types the first thing that comes to mind before he can psyche himself out. 

_hey_. 

A response comes ringing through not even a minute later, and Louis frantically switches his phone on silent to keep from waking Zayn. 

_hiiii. flying this weekend?_  

It’s casually curious. Almost normal, if they were the sort of people to exchange texts like that. Louis has to remind himself that they’re not. 

_no,_ he types. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he adds _, actually in LA right now for Zayn’s bachelor weekend. night one: complete._

Harry’s answer comes quicker than the last one: _you’re in LA?? can i come see you???_ But before Louis can even respond, another text comes through. 

_unless you don’t want to_

And that’s the thing. Louis _wants_ to. Even if he shouldn’t, even if he’s not technically on business, he wants to. It makes sense, somehow. When he’s not at home, he meets up with Harry. Far and beyond anything else, that’s what he knows and that’s what it’s been.

He knows Zayn wouldn’t mind, having already met Harry once before when he used to fly out as much as Louis. And Liam definitely wouldn’t ask any questions, probably already knows on _some_ level because he and Zayn are pretty obvious in the conversations they have on the rare occasion they’re both drunk in front of Liam. He can’t tell if it all really makes sense, or if he’s just putting the pieces together in a way that makes it seem logical in his head. 

But he’s just buzzed enough right now to know what he wants. 

_yeah go out with us tomorrow night. it'll be fun_

All he gets in return is a string of emoji smiley faces, and it takes a moment of mental repositioning to remember that Harry is very much an adult. But even the firmest of logic can’t stave off the subsequent warmth that blooms in his chest. He texts Harry the hotel’s address and tells him to go to bed, feeling strangely domestic in a way he only gets when he says goodnight to Aiden. 

But Aiden’s not answering right now, so. 

“Everything okay?” 

He whips his head around to find Liam standing by the door, prepared to leave and looking scrubbed up and clean. “What?” 

“Everything with Aiden,” he clarifies, gesturing to Louis’ phone. “Don’t tell me you miss him already.” But he’s joking and his eyes are kind. 

Louis looks down at the screen, where one last emoji—the sleepy one this time—pops up. He swallows around a lump in his throat. 

“Yeah. I do.” 

\--- 

Much of Louis’ Saturday passes in a muddle of nerves, even after he tells Zayn and Liam about the plans to meet up with Harry. Unsurprisingly, they don’t mind the added company, and though that should settle him, he still feels on edge for the rest of the day. 

They go to brunch at noon, driving out to some French place that Liam was adamant they go to. Louis should remember the full name because it sounds just like his, but he’s too distracted by the menu and the pastry counter on the way out. It adds a touch of class to what would have otherwise been a messy weekend, and Louis makes a mental note to eat out more often with Liam. Most of the nice restaurants he’s visited in Omaha have been with Aiden, and, well, it’d be nice to mix up the company every now and then. 

Harry sends him texts later in the afternoon, mostly useless things saying how excited he is, or asking what clothes he should wear. Louis only answers about half of them knowing that Harry’s the type of person to keep going anyway, with or without the encouragement. 

But it’s enough to loosen the knot in his chest. 

By late evening, they’ve got sodas and a bottle of vodka from a liquor store around the corner, and Harry’s due to show up at any moment. Louis has a small crisis when digging through his suitcase, eventually relying on Zayn to help him pick an outfit. Blue jeans and a gray button up. Fun, but respectable. 

“What are you so nervous about?” Zayn asks, the ever-observant shit. 

Louis peers over his shoulder where Liam is putting on socks. “I’m not nervous.” 

“Sure you aren’t,” Zayn says, unimpressed. But he walks away and leaves it at that. 

Objectively, there’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s Zayn’s bachelor weekend, and Harry showing up doesn’t change that; it’s just another guys’ night out. This isn’t new territory. 

Except for the way it kind of is. After all, they’ve never spent time in each other’s hometown before. And then there’s the whole texting thing, too. 

Louis pushes everything out of his mind when he hears a knock on the door. Harry is on the other side when he answers it, smiling and flushed and—not alone, either. 

“This is my friend Niall,” Harry says immediately. He gestures at the blond guy standing behind him, looking generally amused by the interaction. “Thought I’d bring him along.” 

“Yeah, that’s—” He pauses, suddenly caught off-guard by the situation. They’ve never done this before; it’s always empty hotel rooms in strange cities where it’s just the _two_ of them. Even when Zayn met Harry, it was at a stopover at Dulles and they were going separate directions. But this—the niceties and the greetings and the not-kissing—Louis doesn’t know how to do this. 

He clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s fine. Nice to meet you, man.” 

Niall takes the hand Louis offers, shaking it firmly. “Same. Heard a lot about you,” he says before stepping inside. 

Louis looks at Harry with a raised brow, earning only a half-hearted shrug in return. 

As they step inside, Louis privately notes how good Harry looks. It’s always suits and ties between them, general reminders of the only environment where their relationship can exist, and certainly not the black v-neck and skinny jeans that cling effortlessly to Harry’s frame. None of it should come as a complete shock, given how familiar Louis has grown to Harry’s body, but it’s another thing to see him in this light. 

“Okay, now that we’re all here,” Zayn says, propped up against Niall like they’ve known each other their whole lives, “I would very much like to get drunk now.” 

Niall laughs and Liam rolls his eyes, even as he makes to pop the bottle of vodka open. 

Louis feels an arm sneak around his waist. Looking over at Harry, he sees him watching the scene unfold in front of them. This is…it’s innocent, really. And in a way, he’s thankful for the other people here to distract him from lingering on it for too long. Still, he allows himself to lean in toward Harry. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Harry whispers. “I’m glad you told me.” 

Louis turns away, his mind fuzzy with the feeling of Harry’s hand resting against his hip. He doesn’t need a drink, he thinks, if he already feels like this. 

“This is a bit different, isn’t it,” Harry continues, voice still hushed. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, we’re not alone.” He looks over at Louis, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips. “Means I have to show some self-control around you right now.” 

Louis swallows hard, blushing under the heat of Harry’s stare. He’s not lying, because Louis definitely feels it, too—the instinct to draw him in until they’re impossibly close. But it still sounds like too much of a confession when they’re this close together. Touching, but not really touching the way they’re used to. 

“That’s probably for the best,” he hears himself say. 

But Harry only smirks, detaching from Louis to join in with the rest boys and grab a drink.

Drinks in the hotel room last under an hour until they’re all comfortably buzzed. Harry and Niall suggest a rooftop bar in Hollywood and Louis and Liam instantly approve the idea as a change of pace from the previous night. They climb into a cab and it’s all very adult, in a way. None of the usual drunken missteps on the way to some dingy nightclub. Even Zayn is sober enough to remember to tip their driver and not make a fuss when they see the long line to get in. 

Cover charge is a bit expensive, even by Hollywood standards according to Niall, but Harry immediately pays for Louis and he tries his hardest not to make a big deal over it. Whatever, he’ll pay for Harry’s drink. Or the first seven. 

Once they’re upstairs, Louis realizes he’s never actually gone somewhere quite like this before. Then again, everything from the swimming pool and laser lights to the decorative canopies and neon booths is a bit overwhelming; this is a place for groups, and Louis rarely ever travels in a pack. 

“I’ll get drinks,” Harry says, heading toward the bar. “The rest of you find somewhere to sit.” 

They grab a booth, highlighter yellow, tucked away near the balcony overlooking the rest of the city. It’s actually pretty impressive to see the twinkling lights sprawled out, and there’s a growing part of him that’s glad to have invited Harry along. And Niall, too, by extension. Everyone here looks approximately their age—a number that Louis has refused to acknowledge for a few years now—and maybe that’s a good thing for once. It seems fitting to spend Zayn’s last few nights of bachelorhood with people who won’t aggressively grope them on the dance floor.  

That’s the plan, at least. 

“I like it here,” he says, sliding into one side of the booth. He ignores the way the rest of them seem to leave the spot next to him empty. 

“When in LA,” Niall smiles, reaching out gratefully when Harry returns with their drinks. 

“I didn’t know what everyone wanted,” Harry admits sheepishly, sitting down next to Louis. 

“Which means he got the fruitiest drinks on the menu,” Niall fills in. 

“Hey,” Harry says, all pouty. “They’re delicious.” 

Niall winks and downs more than half of his pink-and-red cocktail in one swallow. Louis, on the other hand, is pleased to find that, yes, they _are_ delicious. 

“So,” Liam starts, looking between Harry and Niall, “how long have you two known each other?” 

Harry’s face gets all soft around the edges—not that they were ever sharp to begin with, but it makes Louis want to reach out and feel. He shoves the impulse aside. 

“Known each other our whole lives, basically,” Harry explains, glancing over at Niall across the table. “We went to high school and college together and moved to LA right after graduation.”

Zayn turns to Niall. “D’you work with Harry, too?” 

Niall shakes his head. “Nah. That’s too intense for me. I’m a music producer here in town.” 

Harry snorts. “ _Yeah_ , but you still have to travel across the country.” 

“Only once in a while,” Niall shrugs. “Not like you guys. I think I’d miss home too much if I were away all the time.” 

“I don’t do it so much anymore,” Liam chimes in, a shade defensive. 

“Neither do I,” Zayn adds thoughtfully. “Have to bring it back home now that I’m getting married.” 

Niall nods and takes another sip of his drink. “See? That’s what I’m saying. I’m always telling Harry that he’s going to want to settle down one day, meet someone nice and start a life. You can’t do that when you’re always away.” Something changes in his face then, like he’s caught himself, and he sends an apologetic look Louis’ way. “No offense.” 

Louis stares back, surprised. “Me? I’m not offended. I—” He tries to choose his words carefully. “Things never stay the same, right? And I’m not getting married like Zayn over here, but I’m not exactly without anything to do back home, either. I have, um.” _Someone waiting for me_ , he thinks to say. “I have plans,” comes out instead. 

But everyone at the table seems to understand what he means and there’s a solemn sort of silence that passes. Louis feels like he’s taken a wrong turn here, and when he turns to Harry, he finds him with his head bowed, suddenly very interested in his straw. It hurts to look at. 

As if on cue, his eyes meet Niall’s across the table. There’s something pointed about the way he’s looking at Louis, something indecipherable written all over his face. Like he knows much more than he lets on. And Louis has to look away, if only to keep from chasing the meaning any further. 

\--- 

No one dances and no one really gets absolutely shit-faced either, which is why Zayn invites Harry and Niall back to their hotel room for more drinks and some room service. By the end of their night at the bar, Louis is only mildly surprised at how easily the five of them have gotten along. Niall finds plenty about music and alcohol and everything else in between to discuss with Zayn and Liam, and even Harry seems to break out of his temporary silence to join in on the conversation. 

That, at least, eases the gnawing sensation that’s found its way to Louis’ stomach. 

He can’t fight this idea, however, that he should probably tread lightly around Harry for the remainder of the night. Bringing up Aiden in conversation—albeit unintentional and mostly ambiguous—is one thing, but another entirely to bring it up in front of everyone else.

Somehow it perpetuates this notion in his head that the whole situation is getting larger, larger, and larger, and he can’t do anything to stop it.

When they get back to the hotel, Zayn, Liam, and Niall are a unit ahead of them while Harry hangs out near the back with Louis. They haven’t spoken directly to each other for much of the night, only in the context of a larger conversation with the rest of the boys. But it doesn’t necessarily feel…awkward, either. Just weird. And whether that’s something to be attributed to this peculiar habit of seeing each other they’ve fallen into or something much deeper than that, Louis doesn’t know.

Niall attacks the mini-bar the moment they walk into Louis and Zayn’s room, which has magically been cleaned and restocked in their absence. Liam makes only half a distressed face at everyone jumping onto the beds with their shoes on, but manages to get over it once Niall brings out the frosted mini bottles. 

“He’s got endurance, huh,” Louis comments from where he’s standing near the bathroom. He’s really just impressed. 

“That’s Niall,” Harry says fondly, folding his arms. He angles himself toward Louis, dropping his voice to a near whisper when he asks, “Hey, do you think you and I could talk, actually? Maybe in the hallway?”

Louis bites down on his lip, palms going sweaty where they’re sitting in his pockets. “Right now?” 

“Yeah, if that’s okay.” 

He breathes out through his nose and nods stiffly, moving back toward the main door and gesturing for Harry to follow. Once they’re out in the hall, Louis lightly holds onto Harry’s elbow and leads him to the next room over. 

“Liam has his own room,” he explains easily, pulling the key card from his back pocket like a practiced move. “They won’t even notice we’re gone once they’re several drinks in.” 

Harry laughs his agreement and moves to guide Louis into the room by his waist like they normally do when they’re alone. But he must decide against it, because he backs away quickly and leaves Louis to fumble inside on his own. 

After flicking the main light on, he turns around to see Harry seated at the edge of one of the beds, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. It’s kind of cute how puzzled and concentrated he looks, but that’s a thought Louis won’t ever share. 

“What’s the matter?” 

Harry looks at him, lips tugging down at the corners. “Why didn’t you answer my text?” 

Louis instinctively reaches for his phone in his pocket. “What do you mean? Tonight?” 

“No, not—” Harry huffs a frustrated laugh. “My first text. Last week. Why didn’t you answer it?” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. _Oh_.”

Harry doesn’t…he doesn’t seem _mad_. Mostly just confused, and maybe a little hurt in the way he says it. And Louis doesn’t know how to answer fairly. 

“I, um.” He runs a hand through his hair for lack of anything better to do. “Harry, I—” He breaks off again and Harry only stares at him, patient yet expectant. 

Louis sits down on the opposite bed, painfully aware of the distance between them. Harry’s eyes flit to the gap but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Harry,” he tries again, soft as he can, “we have to have _rules_.” 

“Rules?” 

He can’t help himself, the way he reaches across the space between the beds to grab Harry’s hands in his own. They’re deceptively still, but Louis can feel his jackrabbit pulse beneath his fingers. 

“For this to work, we have to maintain some boundaries—” 

“No we don’t,” Harry interrupts, squeezing Louis’ hands as he says it. “There’s no…fuck, there are no real rules for what we’re doing. There’s no _guidebook_ or anything on how to do this.” 

He fishmouths for a second, reeling from the realization that maybe he and Harry were never on the same page to begin with. Somehow, it’s a difficult idea to digest. 

“I’m flying _blind_ here, Louis,” Harry goes on, the tempo of his voice speeding up the only way it ever does when he gets passionate about something. Or nervous. “I don’t—I don’t ever know what to do with you or the way that you send me all these signals and I—” 

“Signals?”

But Harry shakes his head. “But I just try to follow your lead on this and I’m just so—”

Everything about this is suddenly too much for Louis to wrap his mind around, and at the risk of permanently stunting whatever potential progress this conversation could have yielded, his body betrays him and he’s suddenly in Harry’s space, crashing their mouths together and cutting him off mid-sentence. 

“Lou—” 

He only presses closer, folding his tongue over Harry’s and pushing at his shoulders until they’re both falling back on the mattress. Harry hums in mild protest, but he arches upward all the same, fingers digging deep enough into Louis’ back to leave bruises, and he can feel the way that Harry seems to be hardening beneath him. 

There’s so much racing through Louis’ brain—the boys next door, the desperation in his movements, the fucking _signals_ he’s apparently been sending, and Harry. Harry, Harry, Harry. Even when he shouldn’t, it’s always Harry. 

That’s about as far as Louis gets when Harry’s hand plunges into the front of his pants, and he stops thinking after that. 

\--- 

It’s still dark outside when Louis wakes up, caged beneath a pile of limbs. The room is warm inside, even warmer with Harry using him as a body pillow, and he remembers with a tinge of disgust that they never cleaned up before falling asleep, the sweat and the general tackiness clinging to his skin like a fever. 

When he tilts his head, he sees Harry’s face mashed into his pillow with pink crease lines on his cheek from where he must have originally fallen asleep. There are bags beneath Harry’s eyes, like maybe he hasn’t gotten proper sleep in a while, and he’s making soft, muted snoring noises with lips that look swollen and inviting even in the dimness. 

Panic, sharp and sudden, tugs inside of Louis, and suddenly all he can think about is where he’d thrown his clothes and how he can slip out as quietly as possible. 

Once he’s dressed and checked the clock—it’s not even five yet—he pivots back around toward Harry. He should leave behind a note, or at least send a text that’ll be waiting for him when we wakes up. 

Then again, he should do plenty of other things, like clear his phone of old pictures or buy a book to read on his flights. He should get a cat, change his tires, and tell Aiden how much he means to him more often—things that people like him _should_ be doing. 

But not this, no, he shouldn’t be doing this thing where he’s hovering in the empty space like he’s caught between Harry and everything else. Shouldn’t have ever let this happen.  

So he sneaks out of the room with bare feet and a wrinkled shirt, hoping that Harry will understand in the morning. 

\--- 

Louis’ final trip sneaks up on him one week after Zayn’s wedding—two weeks after the weekend in Los Angeles that he can’t bring himself to think about. 

His final destination is Oakland, a trip that wasn’t even assigned to him begin with but transferred over at the last minute. It means another flight back to California…which is a big state, he reminds himself. Compared to the other side of the country, it takes up the entire west coast and Oakland is very, very far from Los Angeles. 370 miles precisely, putting the distance at somewhere around six hours apart without any traffic, or an hour by plane. 

It’s not like he’s googled it or even _thought_ about it in the slightest. 

The people around him, at least, seem mindful of Louis’ fluctuating emotions. He’s not unstable, necessarily. More on edge than anything else. But the guys stay clear of him at work, still taking him out to lunch but never brushing up on the significance of this next flight. And Aiden is sweet at home, sweeter than he deserves, never pushing past the litany of _I’m fine_ or asking about the sullen moods and bouts of disinterest, all of which seem to spring up faster and more regularly than normal. 

“You’re going to do so well,” Aiden says one night while they’re in bed. 

Louis peers up from his book; he’d be lying if he said he remembered anything he’d read in the last twenty pages. “What?” 

“I said,” Aiden whispers, inching closer toward him. Louis might just be imagining it, but there’s something cautious about the way he moves, like he hovers for too long before kissing him on the cheek and patting him on the belly. “You’re going to do so well. Oakland, the whole thing…you’re going to go out with a bang.” 

“Is that so?” Louis jumps when Aiden’s hand sneaks down past his waist. 

“This okay?” Aiden asks, the uncertainty palpable in his voice. 

Louis inhales sharply before repositioning Aiden’s hand to cup him properly, and any further encouragement Aiden has to offer is murmured, brokenly, into his skin after that. It feels like reassuring each other, the way they move that night. 

None of it, however, distracts him from the bigger and more obvious demons playing at his mind. 

He hasn’t contacted Harry, and why would he? The morning after, Harry’d texted Niall to meet him in the lobby, forgoing having to see Louis entirely. And now, Louis would feel like a bigger hypocrite anyway. Aside from the radio silence policy, there’s no real _reason_ for him to reach out; there’s nothing he could possibly say. 

It is what it is, and that’s that. 

The night before he leaves, he’s still in the office at dinnertime, ostensibly looking through the case files of the different companies he’ll be visiting over the weekend. But really, he can’t bring himself to go home and pack and make it _real_. Now that he’s here, at this point, he can’t go through with it. 

There’s a knock on his door followed by, “Hey, Lou?” 

He looks up from his desk. “Oh, hey. You’re still here?” 

Zayn nods, taking the seat in front of him. “Got swamped with shit from Tulsa. Think I’m missing out on the pot roast that P is making back home.” 

“Shit, man.” Louis flips the file closed; there’s no point in bothering anymore. “Married life has spoiled you.” 

“That it has,” Zayn says, all fond-eyed and disturbingly cute in the way he’s been since he saw Perrie walking down the aisle. It makes Louis want to throw up out of secondhand happiness for his friend. “Speaking of which, I have something for you.” 

“An invitation to your marriage bed?” 

Zayn huffs through his nose, looking simultaneously confused and momentarily intrigued by the idea. Interesting. 

“What— _no_. I mean tickets.” 

“Tickets?”

He hands Louis an envelope. “The Oakland trip was mine first. But seeing as I’m going on my honeymoon this week…” 

“Ah,” Louis says, holding the envelope up to the light. “Didn’t realize it was customary to give the best man a present, too.” 

“It’s not,” Zayn says, wrinkling his nose. “But those are company concert tickets for a gig up there. It’s some band I’ve never heard of, which, good luck.” 

“Great.” 

“They’re _free_ ,” Zayn reminds him. “Take someone with you.” 

“Yeah, right. And who do you propose I bring to a show for a band that I’ll probably hate?” 

Zayn clears his throat but doesn’t elaborate. Just stares at him. 

Louis frowns. “Yes?” 

Zayn’s expression doesn’t change. 

“What—oh. _Oh_. No. No, no, no.” 

“Lou—” 

“ _No_ ,” he says one more time, sliding the envelope back across the desk. “No, I’m not going to do that. This is my last trip and…no. That’s all.”

“You’re being dumb,” Zayn hisses like there’s someone listening in the room now.

Louis shrugs. “I’m not doing it. He’s in _Los Angeles_ , for fuck’s sake. There’s no guarantee he’d be home, anyway.”

“Yeah, but—” 

“And need I remind you what happened the last time I saw him?” For a moment, the mere memory of it knocks the wind out of Louis’ lungs. But he breathes in, breathes out, and refocuses. “I think it’d be more than a bit jarring to call him up and invite him to a _concert_ after leaving him all alone in a hotel room. Just a thought.” 

“Did you even call him?” 

Louis narrows his eyes almost defensively. “And why would I?” 

“This isn’t a game,” Zayn says, tone harsher than it was seconds ago. “I’m not tricking you. You care about him, obviously you do.” 

“Why now?” Heat, tinged with something like shame, creeps up Louis’ neck. “Why are we talking about this now? You’ve known this whole time and you’ve never brought it up. If you’re here to _scold_ me—” 

“Fuck, Lou,” Zayn sighs, “I’m not scolding you. I’m _talking_ to you. And I want to know why you’re still acting like Harry doesn’t matter.” 

Louis winces at the mention of his name. “That’s not—that’s not fair.” 

“It’s not meant to be fair. You’re meant to choose now.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me. Besides, nothing about the situation has changed.” 

Zayn laughs humorlessly; it sounds awful. “Harry’s already decided for you. And according to him, it has.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He introduced you to Niall.” And when he’s met with nothing more than unimpressed expression, Zayn adds, “He introduced you to his best friend. You don’t just introduce a fling to your _best friend_." 

Louis rolls his eyes. 

“Well, _you_ met him.” 

Zayn smirks at him knowingly. 

“Exactly.” 

“Oh, fuck off.” Louis glowers at him. 

“Whatever.” Zayn shrugs, standing up and decisively ending the conversation. “I also think it’s worth mentioning that I didn’t even drop Harry’s name when I suggested you take someone to the concert with you. Don’t worry—” He holds up a hand to stifle the response poised at the tip of Louis’ tongue, “I’ve said my piece and that’s it.” He pauses, and then pushes the envelope back to Louis. “And those are for you.” 

“I don’t need these—” 

“Neither do I,” Zayn shoots back, tossing him a quirk of his brow over his shoulder and then walking out. 

The room feels remarkably still after Zayn leaves, almost suspended, and when Louis turns to look at the envelope sitting on his desk, it feels inevitable. 

\--- 

Something about California makes sense for him and Harry. They met here, and now— 

Well. At least they’re here at all. 

“I didn’t know what you wanted, so I just got you sausage and peppers and a beer,” Harry says when he gets to the table Louis’ found for them in the back. “Hope that’s okay.” 

Louis swipes at his ankle, hooking them together. “Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks.” 

Harry winks. “Of course.” 

Whether Harry’s completely willing to forget about the incident in Los Angeles or he’s biding his time for a later blowout, Louis doesn’t know. But when he answered Louis’ phone call the other day, he seemed characteristically pleasant and more than willing to drop everything at home and fly up to Oakland for the night. 

Whatever the reason that Harry is sitting in front of him, Louis knows that he’s lucky. Lucky, and a bit of a dick. 

“This band we’re seeing…” Harry starts once their food gets to the table. 

“What about it?” Louis manages through a mouthful of fries. 

Harry chuckles and sips from his beer. “That’s just it. I know nothing other than the fact that you have free tickets. They better be _good_ , Tomlinson. I had a frozen pizza with my name on it back home.” 

Louis makes a face because Harry’s an idiot, and he’s glad that he’s here. “I think they’re called…some sort of animal. A caribou, maybe. Or an antelope. One of those band-sounding animals.” 

“I don’t think there’s such a thing,” Harry points out shrewdly. “And a caribou, _really_? Antelope, I understand, but caribou…” 

“Well you would know, wouldn’t you? Being a music snob and all.” 

Harry frowns and it’s stupidly cute, even for a supposedly grown man. “Having taste doesn’t make you a snob.” 

“What a snobbish thing to say.” 

He scoots back, laughing riotously as Harry attempts to kick at his balls under the table. In this bar full of college students and dodgy-looking teens, Louis feels delightfully adolescent in a way that’s unfamiliar to him, even when he _was_ in high school. He’d never had a crush or steady boyfriend he could be an absolute _moron_ with, and by the time he got together with Aiden, idiocy was reserved for basement parties or the privacy of their dorm room. There was never any time to be out and alive and in love. 

Not that that’s what this is, but it’s a remarkably convincing shadow of the real thing. 

Harry is good at making things seem real, even when they’re not. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Louis says in spite of himself. Something about the atmosphere and the moment lends itself to just leaving it out there on the line. 

Harry stares at him, expression blank and impenetrable. It’s a far cry from their laughter only moments ago, and Louis feels oddly exposed. 

“Of course,” he repeats eventually, smiling a bit. 

\--- 

The band is shit, some alternative act that might have appealed to Harry on paper, but really, they’re just a bunch of noise. And it’s hot inside and the bar is crowded, so they just leave. 

“How disappointing,” Harry repeats when they get back to the hotel room. 

“I _know_ ,” Louis groans, kicking off his shoes and falling onto the bed. His back sinks into the mattress and he didn’t realize how tired he was from the last few days of firing and downsizing, but it’s all catching up to him now. “Fuck Zayn, honestly. No wonder he didn’t want to take this trip from me.” 

Harry laughs from the bathroom, an echoing sound that reaches him out here. “He duped you.” 

Louis hums his agreement and closes his eyes, letting relief wash over him in waves. He should probably peel off his shirt and change into something cleaner; maybe he’ll shower, too, if he can bring himself to do so. But with his whole trip behind him now and a one-way flight back home waiting in the morning, he doesn’t want to do much more than just lay here. Snow Patrol has nothing on him. 

He might be close to drifting off when he feels a dip at the edge of the bed. Without opening his eyes, he scoots over to make room, but he’s trapped when he feels Harry crawl over him, arms and legs shuffling slowly along his sides. 

“Excuse me,” he says, eyes still shut. 

“Louis.”

“What.” 

“ _Lou_.” 

Begrudgingly, he opens his eyes and hitches a breath when he sees how close Harry is. He’s not actually touching Louis—mostly just hovering and caging him in between his limbs. Like this, Louis feels smaller than ever, in more ways than one. 

Harry is stunning, and it hits Louis all at once just how wonderful he is, in all senses of the word. He could be with anyone, could be spending a night in a hotel room with anyone, and he’s here with Louis instead. Louis wants…he wants Harry here, but he also wants so much more _for_ him. And it’s a hurricane of emotions raging inside of him that has him turning away. 

“Hey,” Harry whispers, pleading and gentle. “Lou.” 

Everything else around them seems to have melted away, and Louis has no choice but to meet Harry’s eyes. He could count his eyelashes from this close. 

“Hi.” 

Harry must take that as some sort of sign, because he leans forward to press their foreheads together. He doesn’t _do_ anything, like kiss Louis. Instead, he closes his eyes and stays there, not touching him anywhere else and just breathing in and out, in and out. Louis reaches out to grip at Harry’s wrists, holding him down like he might float away. He’s so _warm_. 

“Harry,” he says, so low that he’s not sure he’s said it himself. 

“I’ve never woken up alone,” Harry sighs, breath ghosting over Louis’ cheek. “Not with you.” 

Louis swallows, and though his instinct is to roll away and disappear, he squeezes Harry’s wrists to steady himself. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” 

Harry opens his eyes, his irises a dark, forest green. 

“Why’d you do it?” 

Something like a dry, full-bodied sob rips through Louis then, and Harry’s eyes go wide before turning impossibly soft and apologetic as he lowers himself, aligning their bodies bone for bone. His fingers weave through Louis’ hair, massaging at his scalp and soothing him. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into Louis’ neck. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked—” 

“No,” Louis says, hands moving to the dip of Harry’s lower back. “I—I should’ve— _fuck_. I owe you that much.” 

“You don’t owe me anything.” 

“I’m grounded, Harry.” 

He leaves a kiss on Louis’ collarbone. “What?” 

“I panicked in LA,” he elaborates, voice trembling. “And it’s. Everything is in flux right now. My job, my— _everything_. This is my last trip until I’m grounded indefinitely. Probably forever.” 

Harry stops moving, his lips touching but not really doing anything against Louis’ skin. He’s not looking at Louis, and that’s how he knows that the words have reached him. He doesn’t _say_ anything, but Louis knows perfectly well what he must be thinking. 

This is it. This is their end. 

And now, more than ever, it’s like someone is shouting it from every corner in the room. 

When Harry finally resurfaces, he doesn’t ask why. Because he never asks anything, not until now, only to have it all blow up in his face. But he looks thoughtful in the way he watches Louis, like he’s trying to solve something. 

“So that’s why,” Louis offers uselessly, looking at Harry the whole time because there’s no point in not doing that anymore. “I’m…so all over the place these days and I didn’t know how to handle. I still don’t.” 

“Shh,” Harry says, back to kissing down the column of Louis’ throat. His hands sneak under the hem of his shirt, petting there. “I just—want to get you naked right now.” 

Louis gapes, mostly in awe of this person splayed on top of him, convincing in his desperation to get closer, closer, _closer_ right now. And though that’s not the reaction he’d been expecting— 

He’s not going to give this up, either. 

\--- 

“Fucking get _off_ me, Harry,” Louis laughs breathlessly, “You’re sweaty and heavy.” 

“Funny how you weren’t complaining earlier,” Harry smirks, rolling off Louis and back onto the damp sheets. 

“That was _before_ you fucked me within an inch of my life,” he says, patting the sheets and making a face. Maybe they’ll call for new ones. 

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up to the top of his forehead. “That good, huh?” he asks, impressed. 

Louis rolls his eyes. But…if this really is the last time, then he has nothing to lose. 

“Yeah. That good.” 

Harry throws a victory punch in the air, whooping and cheering like he’s a fucking _five-year-old_ and Louis wants to kick him off the bed and never let him back on. Instead, he flips Harry onto his back and kisses him soundly on the mouth. Same thing.

“Hey. Hey, hey,” Harry mutters as Louis peppers kisses across his face. He holds onto Louis by his shoulders but doesn’t push him away. “I have an idea.”

“What is it?” 

Harry smiles. “D’you want to make this the best last trip ever?” 

It lands like a jab to Louis’ stomach to be reminded of it, but Harry’s eagerness is cute and infectious. “Sure. Tell me the plan.” 

“Come with me to Pennsylvania.” 

Louis flings off of Harry so fast, he might’ve gotten whiplash from it. “Excuse me?” 

Harry’s staring up at him like he expected this reaction. “My mom’s having a small birthday thing—” 

“—Your _mom_?” 

“—But it’s also a family reunion type of deal and so _all_ of the crazies on both sides are going to be there and I really don’t want to face the madness alone.” He grins wide and slow. “What do you say?” 

Louis’ mind short-circuits for a moment, leaving him with, “You’re from Pennsylvania?” 

Harry rolls his eyes and smacks a kiss to Louis’ chin. “Is that a yes? I’m flying out tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” Louis pushes Harry back down to the bed. He blanks out temporarily, distracted by the way he’s squirming under his weight and shit, it wouldn’t take much to get going again and— _no_. “You’re telling me about this now and you’re leaving tomorrow?” 

“They already know about you,” Harry whines, giving up on getting out from under Louis. In truth, he could probably overtake Louis easily, but he’s sweet enough to pretend. “I’m sure they want to meet you. I don’t mean…not _everyone_ there, but my mom and sister, yeah.” 

Louis blinks. “They _know_ about me?” 

Harry shrugs, a muted movement from where he’s pinned down. “C’mon Lou. Use your miles.” The way he says it, all playful and seductive, makes Louis want to kill and kiss him. 

“Harry…” 

“Look,” Harry sighs. “It’s not a big deal if you say no, I promise. But it’ll be fun and I _really_ don’t want to go alone. So it’d be more about you doing me a favor than anything else.” 

“A favor?” 

Harry grins. “I’d really appreciate it.” 

Louis considers it, tries imagining what that would even look like. He hasn’t…he hasn’t even met _Zayn’s_ family and they’ve been best mates for a while now, ever since he moved to Omaha, and it’s just not a thing he does. Aiden’s family has come to visit precisely once and even then, it was nothing to write home about. Louis doesn’t _do_ families, other than his own. And even then, it gets trying. 

But then there’s another thought that sneaks in, one that involves seeing Harry’s childhood home, where he grew up and all the people that made him the wonderful _person_ that he is right now. The kind of person who’d invite someone like Louis to Pennsylvania—to his mom’s birthday party and family reunion—and actually mean it. 

A flight to Pennsylvania or a flight back home, back to the unavoidable. 

One of those, Louis thinks, can wait a little longer. 

“What do I have to wear?” 

And it’s worth it to see the broad smile that works its away across Harry’s face, bright like sunshine and so very real. 

“It’s formalwear,” he says, kissing him and catching the groan from Louis’ mouth in his own. “Blazer, tie, a nice shirt…stuff that’s already in your carry-on, I’m sure.” 

“What about you?” Louis asks, pulling away. “D’you have to fly back to LA to get things?” 

Harry bows his head, cheeks flushing. “I…may have already packed everything and brought it up here. To save myself the trip.” 

Louis can’t help the way he bursts into laughter at that, even when Harry swats like a grumpy cat at his chest. 

“Oh my god, were you _that_ certain I would say yes?” 

Harry shrugs and rolls onto Louis, pinning him down. 

“I know a sure thing when I see one.” 

\--- 

It’s, perhaps, a little too easy, the way that Louis can just change his flight at the airport. He makes his calls to the office, more a formality than anything else since there’s no real reason to head back straight away, and even rings Liam and Zayn to let them know he’ll be a bit preoccupied in the coming days. 

“Does this mean—” Zayn starts to ask, but Louis cuts him off. 

“I don’t know what it means. Just…I’m not ready to come home yet. And it’s another trip.” 

And they leave it at that. 

Aiden, on the other hand, is at work when Louis calls, so they can’t have a full discussion. He does, however, him the basic rundown of the excuse he’s rehearsed in his head—namely that Zayn’s giving him another one of his assignments while he’s off on honeymoon, he’ll by flying there directly, and he’ll be home in a couple days. 

He feigns sleep on their first flight, ignoring Harry next to him and pretending not to think about Aiden’s resigned _okay_ the whole way there. 

\--- 

They get to Lehigh Airport half past nine at night, having spent most of their day on planes or in terminals. It’s a rhythm that Louis knows very well on his own, but it’s another thing entirely to do it with another person. There’s a reason he eventually stopped flying with Zayn. 

But Harry isn’t a fussy traveler. If anything, he’s more than accommodating when it comes to Louis. He runs to the newsstand at both of their stopovers, coming back like an overexcited child with candies and magazines to share in his arms. He lends Louis his jacket when it gets too cold in the terminal, and even volunteers his phone when Louis’ has died from playing too many rounds of Candy Crush. 

It’s not so bad, really. He even lets himself lean into Harry midflight, huddling close and tangling their legs beneath the blanket. Harry’s earned it. 

The drive to the hotel is interesting, if only because Louis’ only ever traveled to Philadelphia and he’s not quite used to the brambly trees and the dusty back roads. He’s fascinated by the simplicity of it all, having grown up, gone to school, and started a career in major cities. Even with a job that’s taken him all over the country, he still hasn’t seen much. 

But Harry is at home here. Even in the dim lighting in the car, Louis can see the way the line in his shoulders has relaxed, the way his posture has turned casual and his movements like muscle memory as he winds through roads that Louis wouldn’t even be able to see with how dark everything is outside. 

This isn’t something that Louis is used to seeing, and so he drinks it up. 

“I think we’re stuck at a Best Western,” Harry mutters regretfully, yanking Louis from his thoughts. “It’s the only opening my assistant could find.” 

Harry hasn’t given much insight into what he does, but the thought of him dealing with an assistant, all dominant and commanding, sends a thrill up Louis’ spine. 

However, he schools his face into something appropriately disappointed. “Best Western? What, the homeless shelter wasn’t available?” 

“Tell me about it,” Harry snorts. 

“Best Western’s point system is one step above a Ben and Jerry’s punch card.” 

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Harry pats Louis’ wrist consolingly. “But the bright side is that the family’s already booked and scattered throughout town, so I think we’re less likely to see anyone there. And if things get _too_ bad, we can beg for a room at the nearest Sheraton.” 

Louis might be swooning. 

“You complete me.” 

Harry doesn’t respond, but even when his face is covered in shadow, Louis can see the way he flushes with color. 

As expected, checking into Best Western is as frustrating as ever, and Louis has half a mind to leave and never stay someplace like this again. Then he remembers Harry, his cool temperament, and the reason that he’s here at all, and he swallows down his pride. 

Better men than him have stayed at the Best Western. 

Their room is at the end of the hall of the uppermost floor, which seems too far a stretch for Louis to endure while crashing from the day’s sugar high. He feels his lids drooping and his body sagging as he rides on the dwindling vestiges of his energy. Harry seems to sense this, taking his roller bag away from him and holding him up by his waist in the elevator. 

“Think you can make it?” he whispers into Louis’ hair.

Louis makes a stubborn grumbling sound and nods. 

“Good,” Harry chuckles. 

He lets Louis go with a friendly pat on the butt and guides him gently toward their room. But as they shuffle around to pull out their key card, the door across the hall opens revealing a woman with a basket of laundry. 

“Harry?” 

Louis hopes, rather desperately, that she’s made a mistake and doesn’t actually recognize Harry because, god, that would cut into his sleep and he’s already exhausted as it is and he _really_ doesn’t want to be out here for an extra moment— 

But then Harry drops their bags and makes a particularly undignified noise as he engulfs the woman in a full-body embrace, lifting her off the ground and swinging her slightly from side to side. Louis just gapes. 

“Gemma!” Harry says, sliding her back to her feet. “What the hell? You’re here, too?” 

She’s about to say something when she seems to catch herself, turning around and carefully closing the door.

“Gotta be careful,” she says, propping the laundry basket further up her leg, “Ryan and the baby are sleeping and if I wake them up, it’ll be another long night and…” She shakes her head, composing herself. Her focus turns to Louis. “Sorry, you are?” 

Louis’ eyes widen, suddenly under the spotlight, but Harry takes mercy on him and swoops in with, “This is Louis.” 

“Oh,” she says, eyeing him up unabashedly. “Well, _hello_.” 

“Hi,” he replies lamely, feeling increasingly awkward. 

“This is my sister, Gemma,” Harry explains, smiling proudly between the two of them. 

_Sister_. Louis goes through a mental checklist—hair, outfit, breath, face—and decides he fails on every single count. This isn’t fair. At least with Harry, they’ve gone past the point of good first impressions and looking like rainbows and butterflies with every encounter. But with Gemma, a _member of Harry’s family_ , he would have at least liked a grace period to scrub the smell of an entire day’s travel off him. 

Good. He’s off to a great start. 

“Harry didn't tell me you were coming,” Gemma tells him frankly. “Otherwise, I would’ve brought the whole family up here to meet you.” 

“She’s _kidding_ ,” Harry says, glaring at Gemma before eyeing Louis nervously. 

But Louis just laughs. Now that he’s given it several seconds, he can see the similarities between them. The shape of their eyes, the slope of their noses, the bow of their upper lips. That, and the obvious cheekiness they both seem to share. It’s kind of unfair, actually, the way they stand next to him like paradigms of genetic kismet. Louis gives his sisters two more years to up their game. 

“It’s fine. I’m kind of happy you didn’t, because, well…” He gestures to his mussed up ensemble and shrugs. 

Gemma smiles kindly. “Harry’s right. I would _never_. Besides, I don’t want them knowing I’m here, either.” 

“When’d you get in?” Harry asks. 

“Last night,” she says. “You’d know that if you called me like you promised.” 

Harry looks like a proper baby brother, cowering and smiling sheepishly. “Got caught up,” he says, glancing at Louis out of the corner of his eye. 

Gemma doesn’t miss it, and smirks when she says, “So, what’s the deal here?” 

Louis blinks and barely registers the way Harry asks, “What?” 

“Harry’s mentioned you a couple times,” she says, looking at Louis, “but he never brings his boyfriends home. Especially not for something like this.”

Louis feels his entire face go hot, and he doesn’t have to look at Harry to know he’s turned beet red, either. He shuffles awkwardly on his feet, not quite meeting Gemma’s eyes, and hoping that Harry will swoop in like a saving wind. 

“It’s not, um, actually…” he starts. 

“Not like that,” Harry finishes for him, meeting Louis’ eyes briefly before turning away. “Yeah, it’s not like that.” 

“Right,” Gemma says, unconvinced. “But I get it. We’re all a bit too old to be calling someone our boyfriend.” She glances over her shoulder at the closed door. “At any rate, enjoy it while it lasts. I love the two of them in there, don’t get me wrong, but reality’s kind of a shit when it settles in.” 

There’s an awkward beat in the hallway of the Best Western. 

“Anyway,” she continues, gesturing down the corridor, “better get downstairs and wash the spit-up out of our clothes. Probably should’ve taken mom up on her offer to stay in the guest room, but we both know she doesn’t really like Ryan.” She brushes it off like a practiced motion. “See you two tomorrow!”

They don’t say anything the whole time she walks over to the elevator, and it’s not until she waves at them from between the closing doors that Louis feels his chest relax incrementally.

“She seemed lovely,” Louis says slowly. 

Harry laughs, a hint of uncertainty coloring it. “Gem’s a treat, all right.” He angles over to look at Louis. “Hey, was that...are we okay?” 

Louis looks at him standing there, suddenly so very small in this empty hallway and he doesn’t even know why he would feel like he has to ask. “Yeah, definitely.” He nods over at the door. “Should we go in? Because I’m going to need the world’s biggest bed tonight.” 

Harry smirks, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Hey,” Louis warns only half-heartedly, “I mean it. I’m fucking tired, so no funny business. Sleep. Lots of sleep. Sleep only.” 

“Whatever, man,” Harry singsongs, unlocking their door and pushing Louis in. “Whatever you say.” 

\--- 

Apparently, Harry didn’t take Louis’ need for sleep very seriously, because he’s rolling them both out of bed at 7 in the morning and whispering in his ear about a hiking trail twenty minutes away from the hotel. Louis whines, bats at his shoulders, and even kicks him dangerously near the groin at one point, but he finds himself getting shoved into the rental and driven out to the fucking wilderness against his wishes. 

“You’re annoyingly athletic, you know that?” Louis calls after Harry. 

But Harry’s several yards ahead, doing this weird jog-prancing sort of thing around a couple boulders and a tree. He’s in a training tee and track shorts, obviously having anticipated this ahead of time, and it only makes Louis want to whack him with his water bottle and tear that stupid bandana from off his head. 

“Keep up, old man!” Harry says, voice carrying through the trees. He heads up further along the trail and Louis thinks he could maybe get away with collapsing here and getting airlifted back into town. 

Instead, he checks his phone. Signal is spotty, and any desire he might have had to call Aiden is squashed by the _No Service_ notice at the top of the screen. He scowls against his better judgment; with the time difference, Aiden is probably still sleeping, but it feels like the longer he waits to talk to him, the more he’s risking. 

Not that he’s entirely sure _what_ he’s risking to begin with, but it’s a legitimate concern. 

As the sun creeps higher into the sky and the air shakes off some of its chill, Louis finds hiking not entirely horrible after all. In fact, he can’t really remember the last time he managed to do something like this, what with most of his free time spent collecting points in restaurants or sulking in his apartment back in Omaha. The fresh air and the thrill of being out here with everything else…it’s suddenly exciting to think about. 

The trail leads to a small clearing where Harry’s already waiting for him, hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees. Louis tries creeping up as quietly as possible, but the leaves and twigs crunching beneath his shoes give him away, and Harry looks up at him with bright eyes. 

“About time. Thought I’d have to do a search and rescue type of deal.” 

Louis waves him off. “Keep your remarks to yourself, Styles. Just because you’ve got the legs of a wildebeest.” 

Harry quirks a brow. “I can’t tell if I’m supposed to be flattered or not.” Then, after a beat, “Or if the comparison is accurate to begin with.” 

“Only _you_ would be geeky enough to consider the accuracy of my insults,” Louis says, shoving Harry lightly in the shoulder. “Why am I not surprised?” 

“Hey.” Harry grabs his wrist and drags him back in. Louis sags into him easily, hand coming to rest on his chest as he leans back into Harry’s embrace. “You know, you could at least act a _little_ thankful that I managed to introduce some physical activity into your life.” 

“Are you implying something?” 

Harry hums, and it would have been an otherwise innocent response, if he didn’t reach down to cup Louis’ ass and squeeze it all at once. 

“Not really,” he whispers into Louis’ ear. And the way he shivers at that should probably be something to be embarrassed about, but he doesn’t really give a fuck right now. 

He pushes away gently and smiles at Harry. “Fine. Thanks for the hike, Harry. You really know how to treat a guy.” 

Harry beams. “That’s all I wanted to hear.” 

Louis goes to break away, but Harry’s hold on him stays firm. “What?” he asks. 

“This place is pretty special,” Harry says, looking up at the treetops above them. “Wanna know why?” 

He does, but he’s not about to let Harry know that. “Why do I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway?”   

He catches the way Harry smirks at that before looking back down so that they’re face to face. 

“This is where I had my first kiss.” 

“Oh?” Louis studies the area around them. It doesn’t look all that remarkable, and it’s certainly not the ideal setting for a first kiss. Not that he’s one to talk, what with _his_ having taken place behind a McDonalds in sixth grade. “And who was the lucky lady?”

Harry winks and it makes Louis’ stomach lurch. “A girl named Jessica. Jessie, we called her.”

“She sounds ugly.” 

The cackle he gets in response is worth the feigned aloofness, and he reaches up to twine his arms around Harry’s neck and haul him into a kiss. Harry smiles into it like this is what he wanted all along, and Louis is too obliging to give it to him, carefully licking into his mouth and drawing out sounds that he’d like to believe Harry only saves for him. That’s not the truth, of course, probably far from it, but it’s easy to pretend like it is when they’re here, so detached from everything else. 

“So ugly,” Harry whispers as Louis breaks away. 

He can’t help it and laughs with his nose pressed into Harry’s shoulder. “You’re dumb.” 

Harry massages his lower back, rubbing softly with his fingertips. “You don’t believe that. Not one bit.” 

Rather than answering, he bites down hard on Harry’s clavicle before tearing away, running back up the trail and screaming to high heaven as Harry chases after him the whole way. 

\--- 

They get back to the hotel just as the lobby starts to fill with a family followed by a troop of roller bags behind them. Whether they’re coming or going, Louis doesn’t know, but all he wants is a chance to sleep some more or maybe fool around with Harry if they can get away with it. 

As it turns out, they can’t—not when they get to their room only to have someone rapping on their door seconds later. 

“What is it?” Harry asks when he sees Gemma standing in their entryway. 

She peers inside and Louis offers her a lazy wave. “Where the hell were you?” 

“Out hiking. Why?” 

“I need you to watch the baby,” she says, powering through Harry’s obvious protests. “I don’t care if you’re tired or if you want some time with your boyfriend—” Louis pointedly looks away at that, “—but Ryan and I have to go out for a couple hours and help Mom with decorating. And _trust me_ , you’re going to want to say yes.” 

Harry cocks his head to the side. “And why is that?” 

“Because no one else, other than me, knows that you’re in town,” she says smugly. “And if you want it to stay that way, you’re going to play Best Uncle and babysit. Otherwise, I’ll have Mom up here in twenty minutes, wondering why you didn’t bother to tell her you’d already been in town for twelve hours.” 

From where he’s sitting, Louis has to admit, he’s rather impressed. 

Which is how, instead of sleeping or lazily rutting off against each other in bed, they end up with custody of Harry’s nephew while Gemma and her husband disappear for the afternoon. 

“His name is Sam, I think,” Harry says as he rifles through the bag of toys and other baby-related products Gemma handed them on her way out. 

Louis looks up, unimpressed from where he’s holding the baby on his lap. “You think?” 

Harry sighs, visibly distressed. “I _know_. It’s just—it’s one thing to get pictures and videos of him sent to my email, but it’s another thing when there’s an actual baby in my hotel room.” 

“Calm down,” Louis says through a chuckle. He won’t tease Harry out loud, but it’s kind of nice to see his normally cool and self-assured demeanor undone by an infant. Kind of humanizes him, in a way. “And don’t freak out. He’s big for a baby, but he’s not _that_ big.”

As if on cue, Sam thwacks him in the chest with a fat fist.

“He’s seven months,” Harry offers weakly. 

“Well, there you go. At least you know how old your nephew is.” 

“Not funny,” Harry grumbles. He seems to give up on finding the perfect toy, stubbornly kicking the bag aside and collapsing on the bed next to Louis. Sam makes an amused gurgling noise, reaching out for the plush brachiosaurus Harry has clutched to his chest. 

“Wasn’t trying to be,” Louis says honestly, leaning in to nuzzle at the peach fuzz along Sam’s head. It smells so distinctly _baby_ , something familiar but without a name. “But honestly, have you even taken care of a kid before?” 

Harry props himself up on his elbows, looking at Louis with a downward tilt to his lips. “I like kids,” he says defensively. 

Louis rolls his eyes. “I never said you didn’t.” 

He stands up, carefully bringing Sam closer to his chest while he gets to his feet. Sam only fusses a little, cooing and punching limply in the air as Louis hoists him up with one hand cradling the back of his head and another supporting his rear. Louis is perfectly aware of Harry’s watchful gaze, and if he adds a quick kiss to the top of Sam’s fuzzy head, then it’s his own damn business. 

“You know how to carry him,” Harry murmurs, awed. 

It’s a rather useless observation, but Louis preens from the attention anyway. “Yeah, well, it’s mostly because I don’t have the motor skills of a Sasquatch.” 

But Harry doesn’t even take offense to that. Instead, he comes over with his wobbling limbs and warily hands the stuffed dinosaur to Sam, holding it out like some sort of peace offering. Louis bites down on his lip to keep from smiling, watching as Sam considers the toy. For a moment, it seems like Harry’s gesture might have failed— 

Until Sam swipes it away, giggling and bouncing with infant mischief.

“Good boy!” Louis praises, smacking another loud kiss to the top of his head. Sam glances over at Harry, seemingly grateful, before mouthing at the poor dinosaur’s head. 

“Ew,” Harry says. 

“He’s teething,” Louis replies sagely. “Better the dinosaur than your finger. Wouldn’t want to get you all covered in drool.” 

Harry glances down at his digits, brow furrowed like he’s trying to imagine them in Sam’s mouth. “So what, you’re the baby whisperer?” 

Louis snorts. “Something like that. Once I started elementary school, I basically played nanny for my younger sisters.” He holds Sam closer, gently swaying from side to side. “Some things stick with you.”

He can’t remember if he’s ever shared this much about his family life before, but Harry seems to accept the information easily; whether or not he’ll hold onto it for later study is something that Louis doesn’t really want to think about. Instead, he rubs soothing circles into Sam’s lower back, laughing lowly when all it does is earn him a quiet burp. 

“D’you think you’ll have a kid one day?” Harry asks.

Louis keeps quiet, holding onto any instinctual answer that might escape him. Because wanting a kid and actually committing to the responsibility of _having_ a kid are two completely separate entities. And the Tomlinson household had been such a madhouse up until the last days before Louis left for college, when he finally broke free and set his sights above and ahead. His sisters…they’re his family, and however grating or bratty they may be, he _loves_ them. Even when he’s usually so far away. He misses them in a dull, constant sort of way, and he’s always known, deep down, that the idea of starting a family isn’t so much a matter of _if_ , but _when_. 

Still, it’s a lot to think about, especially with Harry at his side and a living, breathing baby in his arms. And more than anything, it somehow feels wrong to have this discussion without Aiden. So rather than sink into the inevitable shakes and stammers of anxiety, he pushes the idea aside and focuses on the weight against his chest, the smell of baby shampoo. 

“Possibly,” he says, and that’s that. 

Harry only nods, apparently satiated. He adjusts the toy in Sam’s grip, flipping it over so he can gum at the other side.  

“Can I try?” 

Louis blinks, and Harry seems so sweetly earnest and determined that it makes his stomach flutter. It’s just the baby, he tells himself. Babies bring this out in everyone. 

He schools Harry into arranging his arms into the proper carrying technique; only handing Sam over _very carefully_ once he’s mastered it. Harry looks petrified, completely out of his mind with terror as Louis makes the transfer, and Sam watches the whole thing with an air of amusement, as if his very life didn’t depend on it. But Harry seems to worry enough for the three of them, keeping Sam at a safe distance like he hasn’t quite figured what to do with him. 

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis says, half-laughing and half-chiding. “Hold him properly. I thought you _liked_ kids.” 

“I do,” Harry insists, panic flickering over his face. “It’s just—I don’t want break him, you know? I want to buy him things and I want to teach him how to kick a soccer ball but I can’t do that if he’s looking at me like he _knows_ I’m scared of him.” 

“He’s not looking at you like anything,” Louis says wearily, coming up to Harry with a comforting hand on his hip. “Just…here, bring him in, like this.” 

And Harry is a quick study, making the seamless transition from holding Sam like a rotten sack lunch to a football with only ten seconds left in the half. He seems almost surprised with himself once Sam’s tucked under his chin. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “I did it.” 

“We’ll work on the language next, but yeah, you did,” Louis beams. 

Harry lets out a breathless sort of laugh, glancing down from time to time to make sure he’s really done it. “Thanks, Lou.” 

Louis shakes his head; it’s nothing. 

In a show of congratulations, Sam slobbers all over his shirtfront. 

\--- 

Gemma and Ryan return late in the afternoon, more than a bit amused to find the three of them on the bed watching _The Bodyguard_ on the television. Harry tries to explain that there’d been nothing else to watch, but Gemma ignores him in favor of lifting Sam and peppering kisses all over his face. Only when she’s made sure that he has all his fingers and toes and that he won’t be gurgling to the tune of “I Will Always Love You” does she give them her thanks, paired not-so-subtly with a nod over in Louis’ direction. 

Harry, of course, shows her out and makes a big show of exhaustion once they’ve left. He plops onto the bed beside Louis, very nearly crushing his ribcage with his large head. 

“Go to sleep then,” Louis says, mostly to stave off the next thirty minutes of Harry complaining. 

But Harry rolls over onto him, chin digging into Louis’ chest. “But I want to take you to dinner.” 

Louis arches an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“This is all we ever do when we’re together,” he says matter-of-factly. “I want to take you out. Besides, I’m hungry, so it works out perfectly.” 

“You want to take me out,” Louis repeats, teasing for the most part. 

“Oh, shut up,” Harry says, pushing at Louis’ face. “I just want to see something _other_ than the inside of a hotel room for once. And your company wouldn’t be so bad, either.” 

“I’m glad,” Louis deadpans, following suit when Harry climbs out of bed.

They end up at a barbecue joint down the street at Gemma’s recommendation. It’s not too busy for a Friday night, which Louis is more than thankful for, seeing as he’ll probably be spending most of tomorrow going through the motions with Harry’s family.

Not that it’s a bad thing, just that a nice break from people the night before the big game sounds like a good idea.

Harry leaves him at their table for a moment to wash up in the bathroom, and Louis takes the opportunity to pull out his phone and send a text to Aiden. They haven’t talked since he left California, which, really, was only a day ago, and they’ve gone longer without talking.

But that’s not what this feels like, and Louis just wants to do the right thing. 

_about to eat bbq and thinking of you xoxo_  

Afterward, he worries that it might not be enough. So— 

_remember the place with the habanero sauce and i spent the entire next day in the bathroom?_  

Granted, it’s not a particularly sexy memory, but it’s a memory and he shares those with Aiden. It’s nice to be reminded, sometimes. 

He pockets his phone when Harry gets back, sitting down at the same time the rolls get to their table. It actually smells quite nice from the kitchen and Harry’s right; they never do things like this when they’re together, usually opting for quick meals that benefit their points in one way or another. But he can’t imagine that points even matter here, in a town in Pennsylvania that Louis can’t even remember the name of. 

They settle for a half rack of ribs and more side dishes than two people should reasonably eat, thankful for a table away from the other restaurant patrons who would probably judge them for eating like two heroes back from war. Really, they’ve only hiked and watched a baby. Nothing too exhaustive. 

At the mention of the hike, Harry’s smile turns naughty at the memory of his first kiss, and he quickly transitions into other firsts—namely his first time. 

“I was sixteen, I’d had about five wine coolers, and I’m pretty sure it lasted two minutes, tops,” he says almost regretfully. “I’d say they were the best two minutes of my life, but I’d be lying.” 

Louis snorts. “Not with that Jessie girl, right?”

“Never,” Harry says solemnly. 

“Good man. Now let’s see, what about me…” Louis strokes his chin, mockingly reflective. “His name was Kyle and we were seventeen. He pretended I didn’t exist the next day.” 

Harry makes a sad, choked off sort of noise, but Louis waves him off before he can say anything in response to that; it’s fine. So Harry thinks about it for several moments before opening his mouth again. 

“Did you always know?” 

“Know what? That he’d be a fucking douche bag? Funny thing is, I think I did.” 

Harry rolls his eyes, smiling a bit. “No, not that. But, um…guys?” 

“Oh.” Louis sets down his napkin. “Mostly. My best friend, she kind of helped me figure it out early on, helped me get through the whole sexuality crisis and all. High school wasn’t the best place to meet people, but then I went off to college and things got easier.” 

“And you met Aiden,” Harry fills in. 

Louis shrugs. “Yeah, basically.”

In the thoughtful silence that follows, Louis takes the opportunity to finish all the mashed potatoes on his plate before helping himself to a second serving. When he looks up, Harry’s eyes are already on him. 

“How are things, by the way?” There’s a practiced sort of quality to Harry’s voice when he asks it. “With Aiden, I mean.” 

“With Aiden?” 

Harry turns away, eyes downcast to watch his fork pick at the meat there. “Yeah. Did he, um. Have you talked to him today?” 

Louis shifts in his seat, and his phone feels like it’s digging into his thigh from inside his pocket. He thinks about what to say and how to confront the question, completely overlooking the fact that it’s nothing Harry’s ever blatantly asked before. There’s a non-answer waiting on the tip of his tongue, something as redundant and meaningless as _he’s the same as always_. And so there’s no real explanation for the way his mind seems to skim over that in favor of something else entirely. 

“He proposed to me, actually.”

If Harry had been expecting a certain answer, then that certainly wasn’t it. 

There’s something magnetic about watching Harry’s reaction, almost like being witness to some horrible accident; he just can’t _stop_. Harry’s fork actually freezes midair where it’d been on its way to his mouth, now gaping in surprise, and it would be funny if it really, really weren’t. Harry’s face falls, something dark and unreadable washing over his expression. 

It’s horrible. 

Harry seems to be struggling with a proper response to that, so Louis jumps in with the first logical thing that comes to mind. 

“I haven’t said yes.” 

“Oh.” Harry stares somewhere above and to the right of Louis’ shoulder. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Louis says in spite of himself, the words flowing out of him without his approval. “Like, I told him I’d think about it once everything was settled, you know, with my job and everything. But it’s been like, two months now—” 

“ _Two months?_ ” 

Harry’s face has finally taken on color, a deep shade of red, and Louis doesn’t know what to do with that. 

“Um. Yes?” 

“It’s been—” Harry makes an aborted sound, pushing the hair out from his face. “What are you going to tell him?” 

“I’m not sure,” Louis replies, almost pleading. “I don’t—he’s being really understanding about it, but I know I’m going to have to give him an answer when I get home. And I just…don’t know what to do.” 

The words crumble out of him, leaving him raw and exposed. Harry appears every bit as vulnerable as him from across the table, and Louis is powerless to the expectant silence and the way that Harry can’t even _look_ at him right now. He’s fixated on a spot somewhere on the table, his eyelashes fanned out like dark smudges across his cheeks. 

“Harry,” he hears himself say. 

He glances up at Louis briefly, the red from the overhead lamp catching in his eyes. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he admits quietly. 

Louis opens his mouth only to shut it again, the full impact of Harry’s words hitting him. He’s right; how could Louis possibly expect anything more than what Harry’s already willingly given him? And in that moment, he realizes that there’s no possible outcome to the mess that’s become Louis’ life in which he isn’t sorry.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, more to himself than anything. 

Dinner passes with fleeting glances and several attempts on Louis’ end to coax a smile, no matter how half-assed, from Harry. But it ends with little success, the two of them walking back to the hotel in silence and climbing into bed with nothing to say. 

There’s nothing on his phone when he checks—no new message, no response from Aiden. He’s not surprised, really, and it’s with a bitter sort of resignation that he turns his phone off, slips it under his pillow, and sleeps. 

\--- 

Harry isn’t there the next morning, leaving Louis in an empty bed with the other side gone cold. After blinking the bleariness from his eyes, he checks to make sure that Harry’s bags are still there. Not that he would’ve just left Louis by himself in the middle of Pennsylvania—not that he would have any _reason_ to—but it’s out of some nagging uncertainty in the pit of his stomach that he feels the need to see for himself. 

The bags are there, along with a pile of last night’s clothes. 

So he can’t have gone far, then. Maybe he went off for breakfast with Gemma, or embarked on another one of his silly hikes. This isn’t waking up alone, necessarily, not in the same way that Harry had woken up in Los Angeles. But it probably wouldn’t be any less than Louis deserved, either. 

The fact is, he can’t blame Harry for wanting some time to himself right now. If it hadn’t been for an inexcusable bout of word vomit, he wouldn’t have even told him about Aiden’s proposal and there wouldn’t be this weird _thing_ hanging in the air between them. But now it’s out in the open, begging recognition and shifting their whole dynamic around. 

Because he’s never been able to fathom what their situation feels like on Harry’s end, if only because it’s never been anything he’s had to consider before. He always assumed Harry knew what he was getting into and had made peace with it a long time ago, the same way he had. But throughout this twisted tango they’ve maintained for little more than a year, they’ve been able to keep the realities of their lives back home at bay. For Louis, that meant distancing Aiden and their relationship from anything that had to do with Harry. 

But it’s all fucked up because now, he’s the one responsible for bringing those two territories together. And what should’ve been a clear distinction in his and Harry’s minds is all muddled and polluted with this proposal, something he never should have put on Harry the way he did last night. 

It’s one thing to hint at life outside hotel room walls, but it’s another to throw it in his face like that. 

When Harry gets back to the room, he seems surprised to see Louis awake and watching television in bed. He looks impossibly young, the way that his chunky gray sweater hangs off his collarbones and his hair is pulled back into a beanie. It makes Louis ache, inexplicably, to have known Harry when they were in school and before everything else became business.

“Go for a walk?” Louis tries casually.

Harry shuts the door carefully like he doesn’t want to make noise. “Went out for donuts,” he says, tossing over a paper bag. “Hope regular glazed is all right.” 

“Yeah, that’s good. Thanks.” He brings the bag to his lap but doesn’t open it up just yet. “What time do you want to head out later?” 

There’s poorly hidden nervousness in Harry’s eyes as he sits at the edge of the bed, fingers worrying with the hem of his sweater. Louis wants to reach out and draw him in, but he resists. 

“It starts at four, so we can get dressed and drive over in a couple hours.”

“Okay.” He gestures at the television. “I think I’ve stumbled onto a Harry Potter weekend. Want to watch with me? I think we have time for Prisoner of Azkaban.” 

Harry lights up, smiling faintly when he kicks his shoes off and crawls up next to Louis. They’re separated by a few inches of space until their shoulders bump and Louis just sighs and scoots over until they’re aligned the whole way down. He sees Harry’s cheeks bloom with color in his periphery, and he wordlessly offers the bag of donuts as the best peace offering he can come up with at the moment. 

Neither of them wants to talk about it, and so that’s fine. Their morning bleeds into the early afternoon, and by the time Sirius has escaped with Buckbeak and sent Harry his Firebolt, they’re forced to shower and change into appropriate eveningwear. 

Which, for Louis, means a herringbone blazer over an old chambray and wine red pants—the only spot of color in his closet of business-approved blacks and grays. Harry emerges from the bathroom in a white poplin shirt and black skinny chinos, looking understated yet sleek in a way that Louis could never pull off. When he shrugs on a matching dark blazer, Louis can’t help the way he comes over to smooth out any wrinkles and pat down his sleeves. 

“You look good,” he says, not meeting Harry’s eyes. 

He hears a hitch in Harry’s breath. “Thanks.” 

The drive to the party—a banquet hall in another hotel across town—goes by wordlessly, with Louis playing with the buttons on his shirt and the radio to keep from messing with the sense of understanding that seems to have settled between them. Occasionally, he’ll catch Harry looking over and he’ll offer a wary smile, one that broadens only when Harry smiles back earnestly. 

Gemma and Ryan have done a commendable job at decorating, turning an otherwise drab ballroom into something lit up with candle centerpieces and fairy lights hanging from the ceiling. For a venue that Louis has seen time and again, it’s like stepping into someplace new, the way every corner feels intimate yet simultaneously filled with people who actually seem to _want_ to be there. He can’t imagine that they’re all in Harry’s family.

Apparently, Harry’s cottoned onto his thoughts. “I don’t know half of these people,” he admits once they’ve dropped their gifts off at the designated table. Louis feels bad for coming empty-handed, but Harry assured him there was nothing to worry about. He waves at a couple across the dance floor. “I’m only here to see my mom.”

Louis looks around. “Where is she?” 

Harry tracks his motion, eyes scanning the room until they settle near the buffet table where Louis also catches Gemma and Ryan making small talk with a woman who looks remarkably familiar. 

Without warning, Harry grabs his wrist and pulls him out of his chair toward the woman that Louis know understands to be his mother. He runs through a speedy bullet list in his mind to ensure he’s at least halfway presentable, not stopping to acknowledge just how bizarrely _nervous_ he feels through it all.

“Hi Mom,” Harry greets. 

She stops midway through her conversation with Gemma, eyes widening when they land on them. Louis squirms uncomfortably, no matter how reassuring Harry’s hand around his wrist might feel. 

“Harry,” she says on a breath, drawing him in for a close hug. Louis stands behind, watching quietly.

“Happy birthday,” he says, hiding his face in her neck the same way Louis does with his own mom. It must be a thing. “Who are all these people?” 

She laughs, breaking the hug and standing back to really properly look at him. “You’ve been overworking yourself,” she decides, leaving no room for debate. “And you need a haircut.” 

Harry frowns but doesn’t argue, looking all of six-years-old as his mom fusses with his curls. 

Louis almost forgets that he’s standing there with a family that’s not his own until her eyes land on him, shining with curiosity. “Who’s this?” she asks. 

He clears his throat but Harry answers for him. “Mom, this is Louis. Lou, this is my mom, Anne.” 

Understanding flickers over her face and it’s enough to make him feel prickly all over as he reaches out to shake her hand. He catches a glimpse of Gemma’s expression, a cross between knowing and impressed, and he feels oddly on display. 

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “Happy birthday. It’s really lovely here.” 

Anne nods, smiling at him then at Harry. His instinct to flee and hide behind the drapery in the back is on overdrive right now. “Thank you, Louis. I’m glad Harry could bring you.”

“Yeah, they flew in this morning,” Gemma points out, smiling smugly when Harry glares in her direction. 

“Well, you must be tired then,” Anne says, patting Harry on the shoulder. “Sit down and get some food.” She looks over at Louis. “Harry hates talking to us, you see.” 

Harry frowns. “ _Hey_. No I don’t.” 

Anne laughs again, and it’s incredible how much it sounds like Harry’s, and she kisses him on the cheek. “Only kidding, honey. Go on and introduce Louis to the family.” 

Louis blanches at the thought, but Harry’s giggling in his ear as he pulls him away. “Don’t worry,” he says, “she’s only kidding. I doubt she’s even seen most of these people more than once in her life.” 

“Oh. Good.” 

The introduction seems to melt away the rest of Harry’s frosty demeanor, and they’re left mostly to themselves at the table they’re meant to share with Gemma and her family. People keep trickling in over the course of the next hour, leaving the dance floor a disappointment by the time they’ve finished eating. 

Rather than hanging out by the bar all day, Harry drags him over to the back, where they set up shop and hog the photo booth from his younger cousins. They pose with props and pull faces at the camera, throwing in a rude gesture or a fleeting kiss to another’s cheek just for laughs. No one else is going to see the pictures anyway, and they end up arguing for several minutes, fighting over which clips end up with whom. 

Every now and then, they’ll run into an adult that Harry recognizes, and Louis has to stifle a laugh at the way his entire demeanor transitions from that of a prepubescent boy into a semi-functioning member of society. Aunts, uncles, and cousins occasionally acknowledge Louis’ presence, but they mostly ask about Harry’s job, living in Los Angeles, and whether or not he’d ever consider moving back to Pennsylvania. 

Louis sympathizes for him, he really does. He can’t imagine returning _home_ , for lack of a better word, to be confronted with literally every family member he’s ever met or heard of. It’s even worse when everyone seems to have a one track mind, only interested in the things that Harry’s said a thousand times before, memorized word for word and recited like it’s the only thing he’ll get to say for the rest of the night. 

And he wants Harry to have the opportunity to say what he never gets to share with everybody else. Like how he posts at least twenty pictures to Instagram of his cat every night. How he wants to go camping even though he can’t set up a tent to save his life. Or the truth, which is that he’s stopped thinking of this place at home—has stopped thinking of _any_ place as home because it’s hard to do that when he does what he does. 

He gets it; Louis gets it. And it’s not fair that Harry has shared this with him before, but only gets to talk about the perks of first class to people who are only casually interested to begin with. This is his family, and that’s not _Harry_ that Louis knows. 

So he’s more than willing to go along with Harry’s behavior for the rest of the evening, laughing and telling jokes like they’re kids again and coming up with increasingly obnoxious creations at the bar like they’re teenagers discovering alcohol for the first time. No one else seems to be paying them much attention, and on the off chance that Louis catches Gemma or Anne’s eye from across the room, they’re always smiling. 

That should…probably worry him, at least a bit. But then Harry is bright and warm at his side and he’s distracted all over again. 

The requisite slow dances come later in the night, and Louis sits at the table with a flute of champagne and watches on, amused, as Harry tries to balance his mom and Gemma in one successful waltz. It’s a disaster, of course, but it has the whole ballroom applauding as Anne each of her children on the cheek before dismissing them. 

“Gemma’s a horrible dancer,” Harry says when he gets back, words only slightly slurring together from their fun at the bar. Gemma flips him off from where she’s sitting across the table. “Poor Sam’s going to have a hard time at prom.” 

“Not when he can get Uncle Harry to teach him a thing or two.” 

“Hey.” Harry breaks out into a slow grin. “Now that’s not a bad idea. Think he’d wanna learn from me?” 

He stretches an arm across the back of Harry’s chair. “Who else is going to teach him how to make a bourbon and grape soda to sneak inside?” 

Harry snorts, smacking his forehead head with his palm. “Not my brightest moment. But not as bad as your Bailey’s and wine concoction.” Louis retches at the thought of it. “Though those cautionary tales might prove useful, too. We’d be the best, you and I. Uncle Harry and Uncle Lou.” 

Louis freezes, letting the words seep in. But then Harry leans into him, snuffling and smiling against his neck, and Louis draws him in closer. He can’t even be bothered to think whether or not Gemma might be watching them. 

“D’you think,” he starts slowly, “the DJ would mind if I asked to plug my iPod in?”

“You’re the guest of honor’s son,” Louis reminds him. “I think you get a free pass.” 

Harry brightens at that, pushing off Louis and darting toward the dance floor. 

“He’s a weirdo,” Gemma opines fondly, winking at Louis as she fusses with Sam in Ryan’s lap. “Good luck with that.”

Louis inhales sharply, nodding when words fail him. 

The music cuts off and Louis grins, knowing that Harry’s likely succeeded in his mission. A couple beats of silence later, there’s the sound of piano notes tinkling from the speakers. Louis blinks, recognizing the song instantly. 

“So,” Harry says, showing up suddenly. His eyes are focused intently on Louis. “D’you wanna dance with me?” 

“To _this_ song?” Gemma asks, incredulous. “Really?” 

“What’s wrong with this song?” Harry frowns. “It’s Mom’s favorite.” He turns to his side, almost like he’s expecting her support when really, she’s in the back talking to one of his aunts. “Anyway, she used to sing it to us all the time when we were kids.” 

“Yeah, _before_ she met Robin,” she says, arching her eyebrows in a way that Louis’ sure Harry has seen a million times before in their childhood. “Besides, it’s not exactly slow dance material.” 

“Then we’ll foxtrot or something,” Harry says impatiently. He turns back to Louis. “You coming?”

He should probably say no, because Gemma’s giving him a perfect out right here. He could back out, could say he’s not really the dancing type—though they both know better than that—and that they should probably just sit and sober up. 

But there's something in Harry’s eyes right now, a marked difference from how etiolated and defeated they’d seemed last night. And Louis doesn’t want to be responsible for that again, not tonight. Not ever, if he can help it. 

He follows Harry onto the dance floor, where several other couples have already appeared. It’s easy, then, to wind his arms around Harry’s neck and pretend like they’re one of them. 

“Gemma doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Harry mumbles stubbornly. 

“Shh,” Louis whispers, lips moving against Harry’s cheek. His veins thrum with frantic under his skin. “It’s okay.” 

Harry nods against him, fingers cinching tighter around Louis’ waist like he’ll disappear if he doesn’t. They move carefully together as the first, falsetto notes of the song trickle into the room.  

_Turn down the lights, turn down the bed_

_Turn down these voices inside my head._

A flood of feeling, strong and sudden, grips at Louis and he has no choice but to swallow against it and hook his chin on Harry’s shoulder, gaze tracked on the dance floor so as not to make eye contact with anyone who might see everything there right now. He breathes in the smell of Harry’s cologne, tries not to get lost in it. 

“You’re good at dancing,” Harry whispers, throat vibrating against the side of Louis’ head. 

He chokes a little on his own, quiet laugh. “You haven’t even seen the half of it.” 

Harry makes a pleased little noise and flattens his palms against Louis’ lower back, taking him and holding everything in like it’s so easy for him. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Harry says, and he sounds like he means it. 

Louis thinks of something to say to that, something that he can’t feel too guilty about this close to him, under the study of Gemma, his mom, and everyone else in the room with them. But nothing comes out, and he only hums along with the music, a million different words caught in the back of his throat.  

_Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t._

_You can’t make your heart feel_

_Something it won’t._   

Everything—the words, the dance, the entire night—sticks with Louis even when they’ve said their goodbyes to Harry’s mom and made promises, both of them, to come back and stay longer next time. Gemma sticks behind but hands Louis a bottle of wine like she knows he needs it, knows the weight of this night maybe even better than he and Harry do. 

It’s with a little nod and a kiss to both their cheeks that she says she’ll see them in the morning, even though she knows she won’t, and guides them to the door. 

And when they retreat to their hotel room, a bit more buzzed and giddy off each other than maybe legally allowed, it’s like a page out of someone else’s story, and they fall into bed with lips stained purple and marked all over. 

\--- 

They pack quietly the next morning. It’s still dark on their drive to the airport, the sun barely peeking out by the time they return the rental. 

Soon, it’s just them, standing between two gates. One reads _Los Angeles_ , the other _Omaha_. The gap between seems wider now than before. 

The way Harry holds himself right now reminds Louis a bit of the morning after prom, when his date had walked him to his front door early the next morning with a bashful grin, flaming cheeks, and a kiss so quick to the cheek that he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t felt it himself. 

The bowed feet, though. Those are only Harry’s. A trademark all his own. 

“Am I ever going to see you again?” Louis hears himself ask. 

Harry shuffles around, toes still slanted inward. “I don’t know.” He glances over at his gate; his flight leaves first. “What do you think?” 

Louis thinks a lot of things. He thinks Harry looks unfairly beautiful, even after waking up with a hangover. He thinks this airport is too fucking small and not at all like the ones he’s used to. He thinks it’s a bit shit weather outside, and he thinks it’s more than a bit surprising that he and Harry didn’t have sex once this weekend. 

But mostly, he thinks _no_. 

“Yeah,” he says, in spite of himself. He reaches out, bridging the gap by twining two of his fingers through Harry’s. 

Harry smiles down at the points where they’re touching. “You’re not going to change on me, are you? Now that you’re all settled down.” 

“No,” he replies, and _that_ , he means. “Same me. Just one address.” 

“That’s what I like to hear,” Harry beams. And with that, he drags Louis into a full body hug, arms coming up to crush Louis’ ribs. But Louis sinks into it, letting himself _feel_ one last time, before he can’t anymore. 

Harry drops a dry kiss to his lips, then turns around and leaves. 

\--- 

Being home this time—it’s different. 

There’s a phantom itch that comes with being grounded. He can’t explain it exactly, the way he still checks the weather every morning or the way everything still seems light and fleeting around him. Time seems to move slower than usual, flowing endlessly like a bottle with the bottom cut off. But he works through it, putting together the pieces at a pace that comes naturally to him. 

It had been hard at first. Every morning began with a little bit of mental preparation, some words whispered under his breath to get out of bed and into the shower. Coffee became his crutch, orienting him through the demands of his day and keeping him awake long enough to get used to twenty-or-so video calls all before lunch time. Little rituals started popping up from home to work and back, offering a layer of foundation beneath feet that hadn’t touched solid ground in a long while. 

He needed to actually _do_ something about it, though. Going through the motions only yielded a certain type of satisfaction, and maybe once upon a time, it would’ve been enough. But he knew the reprieve he normally sought—an assignment at work, a city to revisit—would never come, and his attitude would have to change if he planned on making it out of this unscathed. 

He started with the bathroom, of all places. For years, the counters and the medicine cabinet had been lined with Aiden’s products, all signs of a settled-in life while Louis lived out of his suitcase even on his time off. 

So he took a day off work—because they could manage _one day_ without him—and made his way to the pharmacy down the street. He went down the hair and body products aisle, sparing all of five minutes deciding between the ones that smelled nicest to him before stalking over to the register and holding up his choices. 

“Really?” he’d asked. “You’re _positive_ you don’t have smaller bottles than these?” 

The Rite-Aid worker only stared at him, thrown by the accusation in Louis’ voice. 

“That’s the only size they come in.” 

“I don’t need to wash an elephant,” Louis said, just this side of manic. “How long are these bottles supposed to last? I mean, Jesus, they’re fucking enormous.” 

And only when the clerk gaped at him, apparently speechless, did Louis finally purchase the bottles, making a mental note to remind Aiden not to buy shampoo for an entire year. 

Things went on that way, Louis dismantling an entire lifestyle bit by bit over the course of weeks. He stopped saving the emails for flight promotions, banishing them to his trash instead. Even the weekly newsletters he’d grown so fond of. And he even ended his Zipcar membership, though he'd never really used it before. 

So it happened gradually, but life around him seems to have taken on new meaning now. Things seem more permanent. The breaking dawn when he wakes up for work, the plastic baggie for lunch with leftovers from Aiden’s restaurant, the book he reads from start to finish…it’s all part of a routine. 

Not that it didn’t require some real effort, because it was always going to be _cope with it or else_. But it’s with bone-settling calm and a surprising degree of restraint that he manages to make the transition without chewing someone out or sawing his own leg off. He buys magazines now, flicking through pages to inspire his latest project: redecorating the apartment. 

Zayn says it’s a coping mechanism; Louis says it’s the sign of adulthood. 

But more than anything, it’s the sign of newfound life in his relationship with Aiden. 

They went through their expected bout of awkwardness those first few days back, but it came and went before Louis could feel guilty about it. Though they don’t address his final days on the road, when he was still trying to buy lost time in Pennsylvania, Louis knows Aiden. Knows he’s smart and intuitive, and he can sense the likely doubt he must have felt when Louis didn’t come home immediately from Oakland as promised. 

That time, however, is behind them now, replaced by efforts to make things right. They’re not floating anymore, Louis thinks; they’re swimming. So when he’s not at the restaurant visiting Aiden and waiting at the bar for complimentary appetizers that always come, they’re at hardware stores and furniture shops. Some of their things now are old, just bits and pieces they picked up from yard sales their first couple years here when they were still out of sorts. 

But they’re settled enough now that they can afford nicer things, like a sturdier couch and unmarked end tables. Aiden encourages the change, having suggested it all those months ago anyway, and it breathes new air into a home that had seemed so stale for so long. 

Painting the rooms is its own battle, with Louis and Aiden never agreeing long enough to decide on a color for the living room and the spare room. They kitchen, they’ve agreed, shouldn’t be changed, and it’s not even worth bringing up their bedroom because that’s a verdict that will end up gestating for several days with plenty of heartaches and hurt egos to spare. 

But it’s all taken with a grain of salt, because they’re _good_ now. 

Good and strangely domestic in a way that Louis can accept, especially now in the larger context of settling down and making peace with everything. He even has an _assistant_ at the office now, and if that’s not a sign of growth and longevity, then he doesn’t know what is. 

And so it’s only natural that, after all this time at home, he wants to bring it up. _It_. The thing he’d promised to reconsider once everything was said and done. Once the dust had settled.

He knows how it works; it’s not just something they can bring up offhandedly. After all, it was Aiden’s proposal to begin with and it should stay that way. But he also knows—if Aiden is anything at all like him, which he _is_ —that they’ve both been thinking about it. That they’ve both, perhaps, come to this point in their lives at the same time. Together. 

At any rate, it’s not a matter of _his_ timing. So he immerses himself in work and in redecorating, preparing him for the moment he’s sure is waiting just on the horizon.

\--- 

“So can I sneak into your room?” Zayn asks. “I’m dying to know what color you’ve chosen. And the sad part is, I don’t even think I’m kidding.” 

Louis pours them each some champagne. “Please, I don’t even want to _think_ about the room. We haven’t picked a color.” 

“You haven’t picked a—” 

“Stop.” Louis holds up his hand, puts on the most anguished expression he can muster. “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Can you at least tell me what you’ve narrowed the choices to?” 

He makes a mutinous sound. “It’s between Spring Shower and Georgia Clay.” 

It’s a testament to Zayn’s married life that he instantly understands what Louis says, and subsequently sympathizes with the unfairness of it all. 

“Are you kidding? It’s fucking obvious.” 

Louis dabs at the corner of his eye. “Trust me, I know.” 

They’re in the kitchen now—the only other room in the apartment besides the bedroom left untouched—and Louis wishes Aiden did a better job at playing host so he wouldn’t have to shoulder the entire responsibility himself. But dealing with alcohol, even at his own semi-housewarming party, is something he is exceptionally well equipped to handle. 

“Otherwise, everything looks great,” Zayn says earnestly. “Perrie’s a bit jealous that you went with the pale eggplant for the living room. She fought me on it for days until she gave up.” 

“You’re just as bad as Aiden.” 

Zayn smirks, swilling his drink around in his glass. “Did you ever think we’d get to this point? Throwing housewarming parties and talking about paint colors with each other.” 

“Hell no,” Louis answers truthfully. 

“Neither did I,” Zayn laughs. “Though, I should probably say this early on and get myself astoundingly drunk afterward. But I’m proud of you, Lou.” 

Louis frowns. “For what? I may have kept a level head long enough to pick paint colors, but I _still_ can’t get onboard with buying anything in bulk. Excuse me, but unless we’re in danger of nuclear fallout, I don’t see the need for a 36-pack of ramen. I’m sorry, but that’s gross. Fuck Costco.” 

“One step forward, two steps back.” Zayn shakes his head fondly. “No, what I’m trying to say is…I’m proud of you for making it work. For making all this—” He gestures at the room at large, “—work. You, like, made your decision, you know?” 

And either Zayn doesn’t fully understand the impact of his words or he’s entirely aware of the way it sends Louis’ mind into overdrive. But he’s done an excellent job since coming home of schooling his outward appearance into something deceptively calm, all the while his heart pounds in his ribcage. 

It’s fucking nuts, is the thing. The way that even the slightest _insinuation_ can make Louis’ insides tangle themselves into knots. 

Because Louis is only human and he needs human contact wherever he goes. Always did, at home or otherwise. And he’s not so cold or so jaded as to pretend that the people he’s met along the way—at least, the important people—won’t at least linger with him for a little bit. He can admit that now. 

And if there’s anything that the last two months at home have taught him, it’s that maybe he doesn’t miss the flying all that much. The thrill and the perks from that kind of lifestyle, yeah, sure. But in the aftermath, maybe it was much bigger than that. 

Now, it’s just quiet. Radio silence. 

They head back into the living room eventually, where their friends are gathered and mingling with each other. Aiden is talking to some people from work and Liam is in the corner, chatting one of Perrie’s friends up. Even Lottie managed to make it all the way from Boulder; the rest of his family sent their gifts and love in the mail. 

Otherwise he’s here, surrounded by all the people he loves.

Then Aiden looks up, meets his gaze and smiles briefly. 

Louis smiles back and thinks, _not all_. 

\--- 

They decide on Spring Shower eventually, Aiden giving in to Louis’ increasingly pouty mornings and grumpy nights. It was always going to go this way, Louis thinks privately, but he’s glad for the sense of victory that the whole, winded ordeal brings. 

He changes into his painting clothes once he gets home from work, planning to get a head start on Aiden before he gets home from the restaurant. The sooner he gets to work, the sooner they’ll be able to move out of the guest room and back into their bedroom, where they’ll be able to christen it properly. 

There’s a silver lining to hard work, after all. 

He sends a quick text to Zayn— _i won!! i'll invite you when it’s all done and you can help me put glow in the dark stickers on the ceiling, for a laugh_ —and digs into the hallway closet for brushes and trays. Just as he’s pulling everything out, the front door opens and Aiden walks through with his usual bag of leftovers.

“Hi, babe,” Louis greets. “I was going to start painting without you, but now that you’re here, you can join in on the fun.” 

Aiden carefully sets the bag down on the table next to the door before looking Louis in the eye. “I got a job offer.” 

“A job offer? Like, what, a promotion? Or at another restaurant?” 

“Another restaurant,” Aiden confirms, expression unreadable. 

“Oh.” Louis props his hand on his hip, roller brush bumping against his thigh. “So, are you taking it? Does it pay better?” 

“Lou.” His voice goes low and sad and it feels like everything stops around them. “It’s in Chicago.” 

The words squeeze around Louis’ lungs, suddenly making it impossible to breathe. 

“Chicago?” 

Aiden’s expression twists into something pained. “Should we—um, into the living room? Or sit down, maybe?” 

Louis nods, brain blanking as he follows Aiden wordlessly to the couch. There should probably be a refrain of questions playing in his head right now, threatening to burst from him the way he’s only ever seen in movies. 

Instead, it’s all white noise. 

“My boss—the executive chef—is taking over management for a group of restaurants in Chicago,” Aiden explains slowly, eyes trained on the blank television. “She wants me to come with her. Run one of them myself. I couldn’t say no.” 

And yeah, Louis doesn’t need the full explanation to know that it’s a big opportunity. Fuck, it’s the biggest opportunity for someone like Aiden, who patiently and obligingly goes with the flow and never makes a fuss over the world failing to pay him back. It’s the dream job; Louis might not know the technicalities of Aiden’s career all that well, but he’s sure of this. 

That doesn’t change how he suddenly feels ill, stomach bubbling over violently. He’s sitting, but he’s dizzy. 

“Okay,” he manages. Good. He needs to get that part out first, needs to let Aiden know that he understands the magnitude of this. “So—” _What should I do? What about us?_ He can’t even get it out. “Should I paint the room still?” 

A rough laugh tears from Aiden’s throat. “I’m so sorry.” 

Louis shakes his head, everything else so far separated from right here, right now. 

“No, it’s. It’s just…now I get to live in this nice, redecorated apartment on my own.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but it comes out sounding more sincere than he’d intended. He feels sick. 

“Hey, no,” Aiden says hurriedly, scooting closer to him out of instinct. “I can—I dunno, I can help with rent for the first couple months if it’s too much for you—” 

“Oh my _god_ , Aiden,” Louis sputters, half-laughing and blinking back the prickling in his eyes. “I can still afford it, oh my god. And even if I couldn’t, you’re breaking up with me so it’s not like you need to help out with anything.” 

Aiden pales, the words cutting through him effectively. “I’m not—not _really—_ ” 

“Yes you are,” Louis insists. 

“Well, are you all that surprised?” 

And, well. Shit. Aiden’s voice is cool and even, but Louis can hear the undertones and the hidden meanings lying under it. He looks almost apologetic when he turns to look at him head on, but he squares his shoulders in a way that lets Louis know he meant it. 

“What?” 

Aiden scrubs a hand through his hair, messing it up where it’d gone flat under his chef’s hat all day. “Don’t make me feel crazy, Lou. Tell me you thought it was going to happen eventually, that it wasn’t just me.” 

He just stares, dumbstruck. “What?” he repeats.

“ _Harry_ ,” Aiden says, and in that moment, it’s like Louis is a marionette with the strings cut. “That’s it, right? That’s his name?”

“Oh my god,” Louis mumbles, the sensation in his limbs fading.

“No—Louis, I’m not mad,” Aiden rushes out, laying his palm on Louis’ thigh and just _what the fuck_.

“How did you find out?” Louis hears himself ask, clinging to the question like his life depends on it. 

A sad, rueful sort of smile tugs at Aiden’s lips. “I did it to you, too, remember? So I knew what was happening, what to look for.” His eyes go glassy and Louis wants to reach out and wipe the tears away but he can’t, for the life of him, he can’t. “Liam mentioned—at the housewarming, he must’ve forgotten and mentioned him in passing to Zayn and I overheard. But that was just the name. I already knew because—because _fuck_ , I did it first.” 

Louis instinctively slides his hand over Aiden’s, gripping tight. “It’s not about who did it first.”

“Yes it is,” Aiden nods, and Louis opens up to say something but he barrels through, “Maybe…maybe if I hadn’t done it first, if I hadn’t cheated, then you wouldn’t have thrown yourself into your job the way you did.”

“No, it wasn’t—not because of that,” Louis pushes out. “I was always like that. Remember? I was always throwing myself into my job. Because of me, not because of you.” 

There’s a beat where Aiden doesn’t say anything, just watches his hand living under Louis’, and it’s all Louis can do to hold on. 

“Maybe,” Aiden eventually concedes. “That might be true. But it’s because of me that we fell apart in the first place. And it’s because of your job that we couldn’t fix it properly and give it the time it needed.” He flips his hand over, slides his fingers through the gaps between Louis’. “You were gone the moment it happened.” 

Louis opens his mouth only to exhale with crushing disappointment when he realizes there’s nothing waiting there. Aiden smiles fully now, a mangled sort of thing that Louis wants to fight off. The thing is, Louis feels the need to fight for this, even now, at the end. 

“I wasn’t always gone,” Louis promises quietly, his heart catching when Aiden squeezes their hands gently. 

“I thought that, I don’t know, things might change once you came home for real.” He brings their hands to his mouth, lips ghosting over Louis’ knuckles. “But we were apart so much that we didn’t realize how much had changed in between. And now…doesn’t it just feel like we’re doing this because we have to? Not because we want to?” 

Now that the words have been put out there and made real, Louis finds himself agreeing with them. He felt something when he came home, but it wasn’t what he thought it was.

“It’s not fair,” Aiden continues, his words slotting together like puzzle pieces, “if we both don’t get what we want. We should be able to do what we want to do.” 

That’s the thought that hits Louis the hardest, leaving him winded and adrift even with Aiden holding him down. He thinks, now, of everything that’s come to pass in the last month and a half. The way it all changed for the sake of fitting into something that Louis knew— _thought_ ; it’s thought, now—he had to learn to accommodate. 

But that doesn’t mean he’s not a better person for it, for having learned to live his life tethered to _something_. He’s come to enjoy the feeling, if he’s honest. The semblance of normalcy that comes with being able to call something real, something solid, and something grounded _his_. 

It’s just…maybe he’s put the pieces together all wrong. 

And that’s not a bad thing. He’s learned what it means to be away and what it means to be home separately. It’s possibly not a bad idea to take some time and reconcile the two. 

“I still love you.” Louis hates himself the moment it comes out, but it’s not like it’s _false_ or anything. Because he does love Aiden, loves him dearly for everything he’s gone through, for everything he’s given Louis. Good and bad. 

Aiden laughs roughly, but it doesn’t sound completely broken either, which. That’s something, at least. Against the splintered backdrop that was once their home, that’s definitely something. 

“I love you, too,” Aiden whispers into his hair. “You’re going to be a hard one to get over, Lou.” 

And perhaps it’s a miracle, the way he’s still standing after the fallout. 

\---

Aiden moves out two weeks later. 

Though they’d mended as much as they could with the time they were given, there’s not much to say when there’s nothing left keeping them together. So Louis switches projects from painting to packing and quietly helping Aiden extract the bits of his life from every corner of their apartment, careful so as not to leave anything behind. 

They have a home-cooked dinner—courtesy of Aiden, because they both know it’s realistically the last real meal Louis will have for a while—the night before, and they manage to sit through an episode of Mad Men before turning into their respective rooms. Louis gets the master bedroom, of course, for a head start on getting used to the feel of it without Aiden. 

When they say their goodbyes, Louis hugs Aiden too tight and too quick to feel embarrassed about it. 

Then he’s gone. 

The first week without him is like taking back all the progress Louis had made since coming home. He calls in sick for three days straight, citing nausea and mind-splitting headaches as incredibly valid reasons—which they are. And when he returns to work, he steers clear of the people there, most of whom have known him and Aiden together long enough that they’ll probably be able to _tell_ now. 

Zayn and Liam don’t help matters, not with the way they seem intent on accosting him during his lunch break or any time he enters and leaves the building. But he’s headstrong, at least about not wanting to deal with people right now, especially the friends who shouldn’t have to pick up after him. It’s why he can’t bring himself to answer any of their texts, all variations of _talk to me, we know what’s going on_ and _please just let us in_. 

He reads the messages, but he never listens. 

But when their texts stop filtering through midway through the second week, it’s like a veil has been lifted over his eyes, and the emptiness he’d been able to stave off with the phantom notion of somebody else’s concern is finally laid bare in front of him. And he’s forced to confront it all at once. 

Suddenly the bottles left in the bathroom seem too big for one person. The gap between the living room and the bedroom seems too wide without someone to carry him across it. The colors on the walls seem too bright, and the apartment—with its open kitchen and its two bedrooms and its one Louis—seems too much. 

Everything is too much. 

But this is his life now; the same way Chicago is Aiden’s life now. And that’s fair. 

It’s fair because he should be used to the isolation after spending so many nights the same way in hotel rooms across the country. It’s fair because, at the end of the day, this is what he deserves for treating Aiden like shit. For relegating him so effortlessly to the back of his mind and thinking he ever preferred the loneliness in the first place.

And as much as he’d like to retrace their steps and think about where they went wrong, there’s no fucking point when every step felt like the wrong one along the way. Maybe Aiden was right; maybe it’s on both of them for phoning it in all that time, but he can’t wonder how things might have ended up if they’d fought a little harder for their relationship because the fact of the matter is that they _didn’t_ , and this is where they’ve ended up. 

Now it’s just disappointment. If there’s anything left to fill the void, it’s the disappointment in realizing he’d worked so hard to fix everything only to have it all blow up in his face. Realizing that maybe things—that maybe _he_ —was never fixable to begin with. 

Yes, Aiden said that they should both be able to get what they want. But now he’s left with a job that’s lost its luster and a bed that gets too cold and empty at night. 

All that time he’d spent chasing after the world…perhaps he’d been chasing after the wrong thing, in the end. 

\--- 

The invitation comes on a Saturday. 

He’s mostly learned to deal with living on his own for the first time in his entire life, but remembering to get the mail is something he still struggles with on a daily basis. It was always Aiden’s job. 

It’s not until he’s sorting through the coupons and deciding which ones to keep when an envelope slides out. He’s about to toss it in the bin along with the rest of his junk mail when he notices it. The small _GoalQuest_ embellished in the corner. 

His breath catches. He’d completely forgotten about it. Not just because of the last couple months, but because he’d given up entirely on waiting. He’s good, he knows that, but he hadn’t really expected anyone _important_ to notice. Hadn’t really seen it as anything more than a pipe dream. 

But there’s no doubt about what he’s holding, not with how the envelope lays bulky and bulges at the sides. 

And, okay, maybe he’d stopped even thinking about it after spending a decent amount of time in the wings, not having scheduled a speaking engagement in half a year. But someone must have thought otherwise, must have thought that he was good enough to deserve this, of all things. And he can’t ignore the importance of it, can’t quell the surge of excitement that comes from just receiving the hottest ticket of the year. 

It’s the fucking Holy Grail. 

He weighs the envelope in his hands, fingers flitting across the seam where he’d normally open it. Where, years earlier, he would have already torn it apart in his excitement. 

Years earlier. 

How different the picture must have looked when he still dreamed about things like GoalQuest, too concerned with his future and not enough with the life around him. When he was still with Aiden, but still convinced he didn’t need to be _with_ anyone or anything—just a good book and a window seat. It’s not entirely dissimilar from how things must have seemed only earlier this year. 

And what would he even _say_ to everyone there? He cringes at the very thought of what he used to do, how he would come onstage and tell the room to cut ties, burn bridges, and forget about the relationships that slowed them down.

Well. He cut his ties, all right, and burned his bridges. Now look where he is. 

He smoothes his fingertips across the holographic lettering on the envelope. _The_ envelope. 

This is it, the brightest spot in the sorriest stretch of his life thus far. 

He throws it away at the same time there’s a knock at his door.

It’s probably Zayn, finally here to beat some sense into Louis and impart some sage, married advice. Maybe he has Liam with him, too, and that might be nice actually. The realization that maybe he wouldn’t mind some human company after weeks of self-imposed exile feels less groundbreaking than inevitable, and he prepares to welcome them with open arms as he flips the deadbolt and pulls the door open. 

And then everything stops because, standing there in front of him with a hand on his neck and a fist in the air, is Harry. 

Seconds stretch into hours between them just staring at the each other, and then— 

“Surprise,” Harry says. He sounds unsure.

The sight of Harry standing there is enough to knock the wind from his lungs. He’s in jeans again; the way Louis left him in that airport in Lehigh so long ago. But he’s also in boots and an overcoat pulled taut across his broad shoulders and Louis doesn’t know when winter hit, but it must have, because he feels warmer now than he did these last few weeks. 

His mind runs riot with words unsaid, oscillating between _why_ and _how did you get here_ and _I missed you so much, I didn’t even know_. That last one in particular leaves him so he can’t breathe, much less speak. 

“Louis?” Harry asks, tentative. “Are you going to say something?” 

He swallows against the tightness in his throat. He opens his mouth, but can’t. 

“Okay.” Harry rubs the knot of bone on his wrist nervously. “I—um. Zayn gave me his number, back in LA. In case you were, like, wondering how I found your address.” 

He says it like he’s afraid of Louis, and there’s nothing he wants more than to hug Harry—this tall, uncertain man looming in his doorway like a threat and a promise all in one—and reassure him. Reassure both of them. 

“Are you—“ he starts again, but tosses his hair to the side and thinks better of it. “Zayn said you and Aiden had…I mean.” Harry sighs, frustrated but pushing himself through it. Louis wishes he were as good a person as Harry. “Can I come in?” 

For someone who’s never walked the halls of Louis’ apartment building, he fits so naturally into the scenery, like he’s spent days and weeks standing at this doorstep. And the suddenness of that realization, that Harry could belong here and fill the holes in Louis’ emptying life with feet that scuff the floors and tiny snores that keep him up at night… 

He’s never been more afraid of anything. 

“I…” he manages, even as his body betrays him and shifts over to let Harry in. He thinks about how he lost his job and Aiden and everything else he’d ever counted on. “Harry, please go.” 

“What?” But Louis knows Harry’s heard, and he can’t; it’s too much. 

“Please,” he lets out, hating Harry for making him repeat it, but hating himself more for saying it at all.

Harry’s face completely shatters then, and it’s all Louis’ fault—it’s his responsibility for making this beautiful, wonderful person break and bleed in front of him. But nothing lasts, not on the road and certainly not here. 

Harry nods once, eyes tracing over Louis’ features like he’ll find a way in, find a miracle to save them both. And Louis thinks it might work— 

But then he’s down the hallway and, without ever looking back, he’s gone. 

\--- 

Louis calls Zayn before he can even think to do otherwise. 

“What the fuck,” he says when the line picks up. 

“Lou?” Zayn makes a muffled noise, probably excusing himself from wherever he is, and reappears moments later. “Are you okay? You haven’t answered any of my—” 

“Harry showed up,” he says, cutting to the heart of it. 

“Oh.” There’s a drawn out sigh on the other end and Louis can’t fucking _deal_ with this right now. “What happened? What did you do?” 

Louis startles. “What did _I_ do? Zayn, what the fuck. You can’t tell him where I live. And you can’t fucking tell him about me and Aiden like he has any right to know.” 

“He does have a right to know,” Zayn replies coolly, instantly tempering the boiling and misguided rage within Louis. “I get that what happened between you and Aiden was horrible and unfair, especially after you tried to make it work.” 

“I didn’t,” he admits quietly. “Not really. Not until the end.” 

Zayn hums sympathetically. “Why not?” 

Louis sighs. He feels broken down and beaten, and though he’s really not in the mood to indulge in one of Zayn’s therapy sessions, he has a feeling he’s not quite getting out of this one. 

“I don’t know,” he says miserably. “It got too lonely here, I guess. And I had to make it right before I couldn’t anymore.” 

There’s a pause, and Louis knows Zayn well enough to know that it’s intended for dramatic effect. The fucking dick. 

“Do you think that maybe you felt so lonely at home because you were never lonely anywhere else?” 

“What the hell does that mean?” 

“I mean,” Zayn says patiently, “I’m tired of you pretending that these things have to exist exclusive to each other. Just because Harry is some abstraction that you designated to an area of your life that doesn’t exist anymore doesn’t mean that he can’t exist in other parts of it, too. And it’s so frustrating for me, as your friend, to see you _not_ going after the things you want because you think you can’t.” 

_We should be able to do what we want to do_ , he hears. It sounds louder now than before. 

“I thought you said you were proud of me,” Louis whispers carefully. “At the housewarming…you said you were proud of me.” 

“Lou,” he hears, and he can almost lean into the hug Zayn would be giving him if he were here. “I still am. Always. But especially if you’re happy. I thought you were happy.” 

Louis considers the shampoo bottles, the deleted emails, and the paint swatches—little things to hold onto when everything else seemed to drift away. 

The thing is, none of that stopped. Whatever he tried to come up with, it never helped with the fear of loss. His job, his relationship, his entire way of living…everything felt tethered to some time that ticked away inside him, gnawing away at the foundation beneath his feet. 

And Harry. Especially Harry, whose kind heart and steadiness Louis had taken for granted, had assumed was too good to last. Because of him, things frayed. Because of him, the world started to push back. 

Because of him, Harry’s gone. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. Louis suddenly wants—Louis wants everything. He wants to order room service with Harry again. He wants Harry’s warmth, wants to run his hands down his sides when his hands go cold and laugh about it afterward. He wants to sleep with Harry, just sleep in the same bed and breathe the same air. He wants to tell Harry where he’s from, why he’s afraid, and how he almost added him to the ever-growing list of things he lost along the way. He wants to fly with Harry and share Twizzlers with him when the cabin lights have gone dark. 

“Lou?” 

“Can you, um.” He shuts his eyes, centers himself. “You know where he’s staying.” 

He can hear Zayn’s smile through the phone. “I’ll text the address to you.” 

“Thanks,” he says, relief filling his lungs. He tries to stem the feeling, tries to keep from being too happy, too soon. 

As he grabs a coat and his keys, he mostly fails. 

\--- 

Louis remembers their first night together. They were both too drunk to make it to his hotel, only several blocks away from the convention center. So they settled for Harry’s room at the shitty, overbooked hotel just next door. It was, Louis recalls clearly, the only time they’d stayed in a room that wasn’t booked under his name. 

Every other time, they met on Louis’ terms. He thought of it as taking control of a situation that, he realizes now, he could never control in the first place. 

Standing outside Harry’s door and waiting for a response, he wonders what the world might look like on the other side. How Harry fits into the context of an empty room. Whether or not it feels as vacant and battered in there as it does out here. If he’s there at all. 

But he hears footsteps coming his way and there’s a moment, between knocking on the door and Harry answering it, that he can see the scene from that afternoon. Harry on his doorstep, and then again, when he left it. 

Selfishly, and with the roles reversed, he hopes he hasn’t fucked everything up beyond repair. 

When Harry answers, he looks every bit as broken and defeated as Louis feels. But it vanishes with the surprise that shines through the surface. 

“Louis?” 

He steels himself. “I won’t blame you if want me to leave. It’d be no less than I deserve.” 

“What, no.” Harry steps aside unthinkingly. “Please, come in.” 

It shouldn’t be that easy, but Harry was always better than that. Better than him. 

Stepping more into the room, he looks around. Harry’s bags, unpacked, sit at the foot of the bed and the default channel—the one with the hotel promos—plays on the television in the background. The mini-bar is open but nothing seems out of place, almost like Harry couldn’t decide whether or not to do it. Louis is more than pleased he didn’t.

“I’m so sorry,” he ends up saying when Harry shuts the door. 

Harry’s face darkens with something apologetic and _how even_. “No, Lou, I shouldn’t have ambushed you like that—” 

“Harry.” 

“What?” 

There’s a chasm of space between them and Louis has to rein it in, has to wait before he reaches out. They need time, right now. 

“It wasn’t an ambush. And it was no reason for me to act like a total dick.” 

Harry bites his lip, shuffling his feet and willfully skirting the edge of Louis’ personal space. Louis tries not to wince; it’s something they’ve never worried about before. He glances up at Louis through his lashes, waiting for him to say more, and he supposes that’s fair. 

“Okay,” he continues, freefalling without a buttress now. “I’m just…I guess this is a position I never really thought we’d reach. I convinced myself we weren’t ever going to be more than this.” He gestures expansively. “I thought this was it. Hotels and random cities, you know?” 

Something falters in Harry and he’s there, suddenly, huge hands splayed on Louis’ biceps. Afraid to touch and afraid to move anywhere else, but he’s still here and it’s a start. Louis breathes a little easier. 

“Lou.” He squeezes a bit, anchoring closer to him. “That’s why I showed up today. I knew…I think I’ve always known how you felt.” He licks his lips and Louis tracks the motion quietly. “But I also know that I can’t feel this way for nothing, not about you. And that’s how I was sure that we were probably more than what you’d decided for us.” 

It’s a simple admission, blameless and innocent, but Louis feels guilty all the same. “Harry.” 

“No,” Harry says, inching closer and nudging their foreheads together. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. _Louis_.” His fingers flex restlessly over Louis arms. 

“You’re so perfect,” Louis murmurs, hoping to draw Harry out of his own mind, but it backfires when Harry seizes and pulls back, face tight. 

“I’m not perfect,” he says fiercely. Harry’s cheeks have gone pink, eyes caught somewhere to the side. He looks devastated and Louis needs his attention like he needs air. “Fuck, far from it. I kept coming back to you, even when I knew…” His voice trails off, catching on something sad near the end, and that’s as much as Louis can take. 

He kisses lightly against the crest of Harry’s cheek, nothing more than a soft peck. But it seems to bring him back to earth, grip relaxing on Louis. 

“I shouldn’t have let it go on that way for so long.” He shakes his head, watching Louis for a reaction. 

Louis rests a hand on his neck, softly caressing Harry’s jaw with the pad of his thumb. “Then why did you?” 

“I didn’t want to let you go,” Harry says barely above a whisper. “Even if I got hurt in the end, it was a mistake I was willing to make.” 

More than anything, it’s the earnestness and honesty in his voice that leaves Louis a bit off-balance, grasping for something sturdy in its wake. He finds Harry, though, and it’s enough. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says for lack of anything better. 

“I’m a big boy,” Harry replies, nuzzling his cheek fully against Louis’ hand. “And I didn’t want to complicate matters by making you sort through your feelings or whatever. Because however hard it was for me, it must’ve been even worse for you.” 

Throat dry, Louis can only nod. 

“When I think about it, I probably shouldn’t have invested so much of myself in a relationship that could’ve easily ended with you forgetting about me,” Harry barrels on. “But I always hoped…I dunno, things would work out.” 

Louis stares at him, disbelieving. “You were willing to gamble that?” 

“You’re worth it,” Harry shrugs. “You and the whole picture. Because at some point, you stopped being just another stopover in my life. I could see it, Lou, _fuck_ I could see it. The game nights, the Jeep Wrangler, the golden lab—I could see you there with me. I could see you through the whole fucking thing.” 

He can’t do anything other than breathe through parted lips, and it must be the sign that Harry’s looking for, because he sinks his hands toward Louis’ hips and holds him there. Harry has obviously thought about this—he’s admitted just as much—and it should scare Louis. Really, it should terrify him that he’s several paces behind while Harry’s had the advantage of time to think about this. 

But all he feels, at the end of the journey, is _safe_. For the first time, those far-off aspirations seem grounded in reality. 

Harry presses his mouth to the corner of Louis’ eye in a half-kiss. “I left bigger pieces of myself with you each time we broke apart,” he says. “And I just, I had to hope they were big enough for you to notice.” 

Louis chokes out a laugh, finally sliding his fingers through Harry’s hair and letting them rest there. “I always noticed, Harry— _god_ , always. Even when I didn’t realize it, I was always missing you.” 

The corner of Harry’s mouth curls up slightly and Louis thinks, _progress_. 

“I lo—I’ve only ever wanted you,” Harry says, words sounding more reckless now. “Us. A future.” 

He wants to say that he can’t promise anything. He wants to say that everything in his life that ever sounded like a promise has disappeared. 

But then, he remembers the rest of it. The things that weren’t meant as promises at all. The occasional meetings that stretched into something more. The nights that turned to days and the weekends that turned to forests and dance floors and rooftop lights. And that settles him, for now and hopefully for longer. 

Louis steps on his tiptoes, lips against the shell of Harry’s ear as he bows his head to listen. 

“I want you,” he says, and in this moment, that’s enough. 

\--- 

Eppley Airfield is mostly peaceful on Wednesday morning. Clear skies, few delays, and no cancellations. For once, the world seems to take a break with Louis, and he can feel the quiet in his bones. 

He’s the first through the automated sliding doors, pulling his roll-away behind him like he’s done countless other times before. Harry is lagging, probably over-tipping the cab driver or taking a picture from behind to add to his ever-growing collection of useless photos of Louis stored on his phone. He had drawn the line last night when Harry tried immortalizing the image of Louis in his facial scrub and very little else. _For posterity_ , he argued as Louis threatened to break his legs. 

But he gets it. The signs of familiarity and routine—they’re small, but they’re there, and Louis wants to remember each and every one of them. Almost as proof that this is really happening. 

“Thanks for waiting,” Harry fake-grumps once he catches up. 

“How much did you tip him?” Louis asks, never slowing his pace. 

“Excuse me?” 

“ _Harold_.” 

He sighs. “Ten dollars.” 

“Ten dollars?” Louis only falters momentarily, but pulls ahead in front of Harry. “Are you kidding me? You know, I should’ve known this about you. You’re an Avis man. Never trust an Avis man.” 

“First of all,” Harry says, all feigned haughtiness. “Don’t even try to convince me that Hertz is, in any shape or form, better than Avis. They’re fucking stingy with their miles. And second of all, I promise, you can severely under-tip our next cab driver. Scout’s honor.” 

“Like that means shit.” Louis winks at Harry’s sour expression. “And anyway, who’s to say we’ll even have a cab driver at our exotic getaway? I plan on backpacking everywhere we go.” 

Harry snorts. “Right. As if you’d ever backpack.” 

Louis grins because, well, yeah. “If it went toward my points, then maybe.” 

“Not a chance in hell,” Harry decides, smirking. “Oh, here we are.” 

They stop just short of the ticket desks, looking up at the giant destination board on the wall. Louis blinks, absorbing all the tiny yellow lettering without feeling too small. As if on cue, he feels Harry’s fingers entwine with his, and they stand there, just reading. 

“So?” Harry asks eventually, squeezing. 

Louis squeezes back. “I don’t know. Do we have any limitations?” 

“No.” 

“Any stipulations? Any outstanding conflicts with foreign third parties I should know about?” 

“ _No_ ,” Harry repeats, poorly stifling his laughter. 

“Okay,” Louis says, pleased. 

There’s still so much in flux right now—Louis’ job, Harry’s return ticket, how they plan on making this work for the long-term. Sometimes it almost blinds Louis with how much they have left to consider over a proper, adult conversation. And several days spent introducing Harry to his life in Omaha hadn’t really left much time for a real discussion. 

But then he’ll remember that there’s more than just that. Things like Harry’s smile in the morning. Or his laugh at something Zayn and Liam had said over drinks. Or the way that they’re walking into an airport, hand in hand, and planning on leaving it _together_. 

So he says, “Anywhere,” and mostly means it. 

Harry rolls his eyes, but there’s fondness there, too. “C’mon, Lou. You don’t mean that.” 

And maybe he can wheedle out one place in the entire world from the list of options in front of him; maybe he doesn’t mean _anywhere_ , after all.

But then Louis thinks, _anywhere with you_ , and yeah, maybe he does.


End file.
